


Warm Bodies

by Betty_Hazel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Play, Animal Play, Blow Jobs, Cake, Chastity Device, Child Neglect, Chocolate, Cock Warming, Collars, Come Sharing, Dehumanisation, Feelings, First Time, Food Sex, Hand Jobs, Human Furniture, Humiliation, Immobility, M/M, Masturbation, Public Blow Jobs, Quidditch, Service Submission, Small Penis, Tea, Virginity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2019-08-22 06:23:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 92,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16592519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Betty_Hazel/pseuds/Betty_Hazel
Summary: Draco Malfoy has spent his whole life wanting to go down on his knees (amongst other, quite specific but perhaps more depraved, desires). He's wanted it all for so long that he's stopped believing that there might be someone out there who might be able to give it all to him; it comes as something of a surprise to find that maybe Harry Potter can, and that maybe Harry's looking for something too.





	1. Chapter 1

The thing is, Draco just wants to be treated like he's nothing. That's it. Like he's worthless, like he's less than human. Like he's just a hole, or holes, like he's a rag for people's come and nothing fucking more. It's settled, down deep in his chest, this need he has to be humiliated, to be shamed, to be taken and used and fucked and ignored and then afterwards, he can clean himself up, take down the glamour, and go back to being Draco Malfoy. Go back to being haughty and above it all and a fucking Malfoy, where nothing sticks and they just keep their heads held high until the noise dies down and the money starts coming in again. 

The thing is, it's been nothing more than a fantasy until his father dies, and his mother takes herself off to the continent, and despite all attempts at persuasion, Draco refuses to follow her. 

The manor's been gone for years by now, sold off by his family who breathed nonchalance and a snooty, _it's tainted now_ , when asked. Then it's a large apartment in London, a house in the Scottish highlands, and another apartment in France. It's one in Italy, and another place in Norway. 

And then his father's dead and his mother's gone, and the Scottish house and the London flat are Draco's because his mother's never coming back to Great Britain. 

And then, and _then_ , the desperate need that Draco has to be used, well, that can start coming true. 

***

His glamour spells are brilliant, his speciality, and he finds a place in Muggle London where there's a back corridor where he can go down on his knees and get his cock out and take what people want to give him. 

That first time, he gets smacked around the face with a stranger's cock, and it's not what he imagined and it makes him feel like he's two inches tall. He's so hard he's fucking leaking with it, and the man laughs at him for it, laughs at him for the humiliation that Draco's been craving his whole entire adult life and never properly understood. 

He's never been big, always on the smaller side of average when soft, but whilst some people get bigger when hard, he's not one of them. His dick's small, and the second time he goes out, he kneels down in the back corridor and gets his dick out and one guy tells him his dick's fucking tiny. That he'd better have a good mouth on him or no one would ever go near him. 

Draco shudders with it, with the thrill of the shame of it, and he sucks the guy's dick and swallows some of it and gets the rest on his shirt and his chin. 

When he gets home, he barely gets through the wards before he's dropping down onto his knees and wanking, shuddering his orgasm out into his fist, desperate and nothing and shamed. 

It's not enough. 

***

This time, it's a wizard bar, and his heart's hammering. What if his glamour doesn't last? What if someone sees through it? The risk makes him both nauseous and hard, and shame courses through him like a flood. This time it's not a back corridor, it's a back room, and there's one couple already having sex out there, and another guy getting a blowjob, and he undoes his trousers and gets his little dick out and kneels down on the floor and waits. 

He waits. 

A guy comes through and asks Draco if he wants to suck his dick. It's a little casual, a little lazy, and Draco doesn't want that. He only wants people to be casual with _him_ , not with what they want, but it doesn't stop him from wrapping his mouth around the guy's big cock and sucking him down. His jaw aches with the girth, and after he comes, the guy cups Draco's chin in his hand and calls him a pretty little whore. 

It's all right, but it's not enough. 

The second guy, he raises an eyebrow at Draco at the same time as going for the zip of his trousers, and Draco prefers that, like he's just a service to be utilised, a hole to be filled. His dick's not as wide as the first guy's, but Draco's jaw still aches. But then someone else comes through from the main bar, looking for the guy getting his dick sucked, and the new guy just rolls his eyes and says, _can't take you anywhere, can I?_ and they start to have a conversation about where they're going next, about their mate Tim copping off with a skinny twink with colour-changing hair, and the whole time Draco's sucking him off, and it's like he's not even there. It's like he doesn't matter, like he's just there to be used, and a thrill surges through his body, because this feeling, _this feeling_ , it's fucking great. 

The guy comes in Draco's mouth but he's already pulling out, and half of it hits Draco's chin. 

"Do you want a go?" the guy asks his mate, like Draco isn't a part of the conversation. Draco could get up and go at any time, his wand is secreted up his sleeve and if there's one thing that Draco's great at besides glamours, it's getting out of places without having to have a hold of his wand. The Malfoys had learned how to extricate themselves, and Draco continued to demonstrate his skills at it. 

He could go at any time, but he doesn't want to. He wants this, wants to be ignored, wants to be used, wants to be humiliated and fucking _nothing_. 

"HIs dick's not up to much," his mate says, but he's already reaching for his fly. "Eh, whatever. One mouth's as good as another."

Draco's heart sings. 

Afterwards, when the guys have gone and he's wiping come off his chin and he's got it down his shirt and his dick's fucking hard as a rock, the guy who was getting a blow job when Draco first came in wanders over. 

He's dark haired and tall. He cups Draco's face in his hands. "What a mess," he says, voice a little rough. "But that's what you wanted, isn't it? To be used. To be a mess."

Draco nods. He's not certain of his voice, not after taking three cocks, one after the other. 

"And it's not your first time, is it?" the man continues. "Coming out and going down on your knees. Getting your dick out so everyone can see how small you are. You don't do that if you don't want to be humiliated."

"No," Draco says. His voice sounds wrecked. 

"Bet you just go home and wank, don't you? Think about how you looked here, how you appeared. How humiliating it was."

"Straight away," Draco tells him. "Soon as I get through the wards."

"Do it tonight," the man tells him. "Do it front of the mirror. Do it without cleaning yourself up. Tell yourself what a useless little dick you've got, how you're covered in other people's come and you deserve it."

"Not yours," Draco says, chin tilting up. "I'm not covered in yours."

The man's mouth curves up at the edges. "Don't know whether I can be bothered. Don't know if you're worth it."

"I'll wank you off," Draco says. 

He laughs at that. "Course you will. You're desperate, aren't you? Bet you're so desperate you'd turn around and spread your legs and show me your hole, wouldn't you?"

Draco scrambles to stand up, but the man shakes his head. "Stay on your knees," he says ."Trousers down, yes, all the way. Turn around. Spread your legs."

Draco's heart pounds, but he keeps on doing just what he's being told. He's never-- virginity is still sacred. His marriage was supposed to be sold to the highest bidder. He's not the only person who thinks he's worthless, as it turns out. 

"Cheek to the floor," the man goes on, and Draco obeys, cheek pressed to the dirty floor, trousers down by his ankles, arse on show. "Fuck, you're slow at this. Spread your cheeks. Use your hands. I want to see that useless little hole of yours."

Draco's face burns but he does as he's told, holding his arse cheeks apart. "I'll wank you off," he says again. "Suck you."

"Shut up," the man says, and he leans in and strokes his finger over Draco's hole. "Only good for your holes, aren't you? Tell me. You're only good for your holes."

"I'm only good for my holes," Draco says, and he might just come like this, right on the floor with his arse cheeks spread. 

"Don't you dare fucking come," the man says, and Draco has to reach down to squeeze his dick and his balls to stop it from happening. "Turn back around."

Draco does as he's told. His cock's leaking. The man's got his cock out now, and he's rubbing himself to hardness.

"What are you good for?" he asks. 

"My holes," Draco says. "I'm good for being a hole. Let me wank you off."

The man rolls his eyes. "Greedy," he says, "but may as well. I can't be bothered to do it myself."

Draco reaches for him gratefully, wrapping his hand around the man's cock. 

"What are you going to do when you get home?" the man asks, even as Draco's wanking him off. 

"Wank in front of the mirror," Draco says. "Say I deserve to be covered in other people's come, that I'm just a rag for them to come on. Wank my useless dick."

"And what are you good for?"

"Being nothing more than a hole," Draco says, and he wants to come, he wants to come so badly, but he doesn't dare touch himself. 

"That's right," the man says. "Nothing more than a couple of useless holes, that's what you are. Now shut up and let me forget who's wanking me off."

Now this, Draco thinks, is just what he wanted, and it feels incredible. Shame courses through him, humiliation at its tail. He wanks the stranger until he comes on Draco's face, splashing across his mouth and his chin and his jaw. 

Draco's so close to coming he doesn't know what to do with himself. He watches, breathless, as the man tucks his dick back into his trousers, and reaches into his pocked, coming out with a card. He whispers something and words embed themselves across the cardstock. He holds it out for Draco to take. 

"Come and see me tomorrow at seven," he says. The card's got an address on it, a pub in north London. "I feel that we might be able to come to a mutually beneficial agreement."

Draco stares down at the card. 

"Go home and wank," the man says, and then he disappears back out of the door and into the main bar. 

Draco doesn't bother pulling his trousers up, and apparates home in just the state he's in. 

There's a huge mirror in the entrance hall of his London flat, the kind his mother and father used to use to check they looked immaculate before leaving for some party or event or public engagement. Draco uses it now to crawl over to, his dick still out and his trousers caught up by his ankles. There's come still drying on his face. His mouth looks red and used. He twists in front of the mirror, the light catching across his skin, the stains on his shirt visible. 

"I'm covered in come," he says out loud, touching his face. "Just a fucking come rag."

Then he turns around, still on his knees, so that his back is to the mirror. He bends down, pressing his cheek to the floor, his legs apart. He twists so that he can see himself in the mirror, see what the stranger saw in the back room of the bar. He reaches behind him to spread his cheeks, his little pink hole visible in the mirror. 

"I'm only good for my holes," he says, and then, without changing position, he reaches underneath him so he can cup his useless little dick in his fist, and he wanks himself until he comes on the tiles, right there in the entrance hall where his parents used to stand. 

It's filthy and he's worthless and it's what he's been craving for years. 

He leaves the mess on the floor when he's done, and practically crawls into bed, still dirty and used, but suddenly exhausted. 

***

He dresses carefully the following evening, perfecting the same glamour as the night before and choosing middle of the road clothes that don't identify him as particularly rich or particularly Draco Malfoy-esque. He eats a small meal of soup and fresh bread before leaving, and then steps over the stain on the tiles as he goes to put on his coat. He has no intention of cleaning it up any time soon; he deserves to be reminded of how far he's willing to fall. 

He stares at it for the longest moment, and then apparates to the address on the business card. 

It's a muggle pub, a normal one just off the high street so it's not tremendously busy. The man from last night is seated over at the far side of the room, a drink in front of him. 

Draco forces himself to walk over, to put his hand on the back of one of the chairs and to say _hello_. 

"Hello," the man says. "Let me get you a drink." There's no awkwardness on his part, and Draco's glad of it. 

"A whisky and Coke," Draco says, because Coke's a muggle habit he can get behind. "Thank you."

The man nods at him. Whilst he's at the bar, Draco takes his coat off and hangs it over the back of his seat. He sits down and does his best not to appear uncertain or nervous. It's the one positive thing his father taught him, the appearance of haughty arrogance that can cover a multitude of sins. It's not quite the mood he's going for, so he dials it down a bit, grateful for the few minutes while the man's at the bar to settle himself. 

When he comes back, the man puts the drink in front of Draco, then sits back down. Then he says something under his breath, and Draco squeezes his eyes shut. 

When he opens them again, Harry Potter's sitting opposite him, a smile playing across his face. 

Draco glances down, but the glamour's still in place. Thank fuck. 

"Hello, Draco," Harry Potter says, reaching for his drink. "I'm glad you took me up on my invitation. How was it when you got home last night?"

Draco stares at him in ever mounting horror. He makes to stand up, but Harry reaches across the table and touches his wrist. 

"Stay," he says. "I meant it. I think we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement."

"I'm not Draco," he says, but it feels fairly useless at this point.

"Whatever you want," Harry says. "But stay anyway, hey? At least until you've finished your drink. I think we can help each other out."

Draco's made stupider decisions in his life. 

He stays.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry suggests that he and Draco come to a business arrangement.

"So," Harry says after a minute. "How have you been?"

Draco's head shoots up at that. "Are you joking?"

"Making conversation," Harry says. "A bit more public friendly than 'how long have you been getting your dick out and wanting people to use you', don't you think?"

"Shut up," Draco says, but his dick's getting hard anyway. 

Harry shrugs. "So," he says again. "How have you been?"

"Fine," Draco says, tapping his finger against the edge of the table. "Everything's been fine."

"I heard your mother moved away."

Draco's finger twitches against the table. "Don't talk about my mother."

Harry nods. "Understood." There's a pause. "Let's just get down to business, shall we?"

"I'm not sure I want to."

"Fair," Harry says. "But I can give you what you want, and I'm pretty sure you'll give me what I want, when I need you to."

"What is it?"

Harry raises his shoulders. "I'll tell you when I need it," he says. "But, just so you know, I'll tell you when I want it, and what I need, and if you can't do any of it, I'll offer a compromise. And if you can meet that, then you'll just walk away. No questions asked."

Draco narrows his eyes. "What's in it for you, then? If I could just walk away."

Harry smirks. "Honour amongst thieves," he says. "You won't walk away from an honourable debt unless you can't discharge it."

"Thought everyone knew I was a coward," Draco says. "Just a weaselly little coward. That's what they say, isn't it?"

"Careful," Harry says. "The humiliation comes later. You don't get one for free just because you're handing it to me on a plate."

Draco quivers. He tries not to let it tell, but Harry's eyebrow quirk gives him away. 

"I can give you what you need," Harry says, leaning across the table. There's a muffliato charm on their table, probably two since Draco is fairly sure Harry's put one on too, but it doesn't stop Harry from leaning even closer. "I can make you feel as ashamed and humiliated and turned on as you want. I'll take you to those back rooms. I'll tell you to get your cock out and show it off to anyone who wants to laugh at it. And they will laugh at it, won't they? They'll laugh at you, for being so fucking desperate you're begging for it off strangers. And then I'll take you home, and I'll give you everything you want, every filthy thing in your head. You can have it."

Draco's shaking. "How do you know I want that?"

"Educated guess," Harry says. "How close did I come?"

Draco shrugs. "Close enough."

Harry leans even closer in this time, until his mouth is brushing Draco's ear. There's a pop as both their muffliato charms fall away under a flick of Harry's wrist. "I'll make you feel like you're nothing more than a hole for me to fuck," he says, not even bothering to lower his voice. "Two holes," he goes on. "Just a thing for me to use."

Draco's dick is so fucking hard he's about two seconds from coming in his underwear. 

"Are you going to come from just that?" Harry smirks, sitting back down in his chair, legs apart. His dick is outlined in his jeans. "Fuck," he says. "What a loser."

Draco grips the table until his knuckles turn white. The urge to go down on his knees and just take full advantage of what Harry Potter's offering him is just too fucking much. 

"So," Harry says. "Should we discuss terms? Provided, of course, that you're not going to come right here at the table."

Draco tears his attention away from Harry and towards the bar. It's not busy tonight, but there are people sitting around them, people chatting, the telly box on above their heads, some kind of weird sport thing on where people ran around in shorts like they'd never heard of dignity. 

Not, Draco thinks, that he has any space for dignity in his life anymore. Not even close. 

"Draco," Harry says, and Draco's still wearing his glamour but there's he's taking it away now, even if Potter has got some sleazy way of seeing right through it. "Are we doing business?"

"Yes," Draco said, and wouldn't look at him. "Yes, yes we are."

"All right, then," Harry says. "Go into the toilets, will you? Get that miserable excuse for a cock out. Don't move until I get there."

Draco burns red. "Potter--"

"Harry," Harry says. "You call me Harry."

"Harry," Draco says, but Harry shakes his head. 

"I don't care," he says. "I'm not interested. Go and get your cock out and I'll come and find you when I'm done."

Draco waits two, maybe three seconds. There's a muscle pulsing in his cheek; he can feel it. 

Then he pushes his chair back from the table, grabs his coat, and heads for the sign that says _gents_. 

Inside, there's one cubicle and two urinals. He puts his coat on the windowsill and assumes Harry doesn't want him in the cubicle. He's humiliated and ashamed but neither of those things make his dick any less hard. He's pulsed pre-come in a damp patch on his underwear. He pushes them out of the way and gets his cock out, hovering near to the urinal in case anyone comes in. 

And then he waits. 

One minute, then another. Someone comes down the hall but they go into the ladies next door. Someone else comes, but they put hover outside another door and then go inside, calling back to someone called Ed about going on their break. His dick hasn't stopped being hard. There's a shitty mirror above the single sink, the kind that gives you a blurred reflection and not much else. It's not shitty enough that he can't see what he looks like, even with the glamour shimmering over his true self. Dark haired, rounder face. Shirt untucked. Dick out. 

The door opens and it could be anyone, but it's Harry Potter. 

"Well," he says, looking Draco up and down. "Glad to see you can follow instructions."

Draco shrugs a shoulder. 

Harry's already unbuttoning his jeans, nodding towards the single cubicle. "In there and on your knees," he says. 

Draco goes into the cubicle and gets down onto his knees. It's a tight fit, once that Harry's in too, but it's not that dirty, all things considered. It's had a mop go over the floor relatively recently, he can see the dried swirl on the tiles of the mop pattern. 

"I think you've got a hole I can fill," Harry says, and he thumbs at Draco's chin, at his bottom lip, so that his mouth falls open. He's got his dick in his hand, chubbed up and hard. He keeps thumbing at Draco's lip. "Drop the glamour, Malfoy."

Draco looks up at him, mouth held open by Harry's thumb, and blinks. The magic he's been holding onto dissipates with a shiver, and then he's back in his own space, familiar and possessive. 

"There you go," Harry says softly, and he rubs his dick over Draco's lips. "No, you don't get it yet. Come on the floor first."

Draco hisses in a breath, and Harry taps his dick against Draco's cheek. 

"Wank," he says. "I know you want to. Look how hard that little dick is."

"Harry--"

"You like being humiliated," Harry says, and Draco can't help but wrap his hand around his cock and start to wank. "You like being ashamed. You like being on your knees for strangers, except I'm no stranger, am I, Draco?" He cups Draco's face in his hand. "You hated me so much," he says. "You were obsessed with hating me for years. Even now. Even when I say you're just a hole for me to fuck. You just want it all the more, don't you? You want my cock in your mouth. Don't you?"

Draco can't look at him. He's fucking his own fist, and his dick's lost in it. 

"Hey," Harry says. "I asked you a question."

"Yes," Draco says. "I want your cock in my mouth."

"You need it," Harry says. 

"Yes," Draco says, and he's close now, close to just coming all over the tiles in a North London muggle pub. 

"I know what you are," Harry says softly. "Say it."

"Just a hole," Draco says. "I'm nothing. Just holes for you to fuck."

"That's right," Harry says. "And now you should come."

And Draco - to his utmost humiliation - does. 

Afterwards, he lets Harry fuck his mouth, still kneeling down with his cock out and his come across the floor. 

Harry leans down after that, and breathes into Draco's ear. "When you get home," he says. "Do what you were supposed to do last night. Wank in front of the mirror. Say it out loud."

"I did it last night," Draco says, unable to help himself. "I did what you said."

Harry sounds amused. "Of course you did," he says. "Do it again tonight, and you can tell me about it tomorrow." He gets another card out of his pocket, the same black card stock as last night. "Come to this address at 4 o'clock."

"I might be busy."

"No," Harry says, "you're not."

Draco isn't, hasn't got a consultancy project on the books at the moment, but how Harry knows that, Draco doesn't know. Harry zips up his trousers, and he's smirking. It makes Draco feel more ashamed, if that's possible, and he doesn't make any move to put his own cock away. Harry must guess what he's thinking, because he just shakes his head. 

"Go home," Harry says. "Think about what you want that you've never been able to ask for."

"You still haven't told me what you want."

"I will when it's time," Harry says. The door to the gents bangs open, and then there's the sound of someone unzipping their trousers and taking aim at the urinals. Harry raises an eyebrow. That amused look is back. "Put your cock away, come on. No one wants to see something that small."

Then, without giving Draco enough time to put it away, he unbolts the cubicle and lets himself out, giving the guy by the sink a perfect view of Draco on his knees with his cock out. 

Harry doesn't bother looking back, and by the time Draco's scrambled to his feet in embarrassed humiliation and got his dick away, there's no sign of him in the main bar. There's just a business card in Draco's pocket and humiliation settling down dark against his skin. 

***

Draco apparates home and doesn't even bother heading for his bedroom. He takes all his clothes off instead, standing in the hallway in front of the mirror with his dick erect. 

"Just a hole," he says out loud. "I'm just a hole." His whole body is flushed pink, and this time when he does the same thing he did last night - down on his knees with his cheek pressed to the floor, hands spreading his arse cheeks apart, he stares at his hole until his dick's so hard he could come right there and then. 

"You're fucked up," he tells his reflection, but he's naked in the hallway of his family home, and all he wants to do right now is go further and further down, until he's so ashamed he can't feel anything else at all. 

***

The address on the business card is Harry's home. He answers the door after a too-long wait, still dressed in a shirt and loosened tie like he's been to a meeting. 

"Oh, it's you," he says, and Draco flushes. The glamour's back up, but Draco just needed some tiny bit of protection and it's not like Harry can make him look like Draco Malfoy if Draco doesn't want to. 

"You told me to come," Draco says. 

Harry shrugs. "You're not high on my priority list."

And Draco burns with it. 

Harry leads them inside, down the hall and down a flight of steps until they're in a long kitchen. On the table is a pot of tea, two mugs, and a flimsy cardboard box. 

"Were you expecting someone?" Draco asks. 

"Eh," Harry says. "Only you."

Draco glances at him then, but Harry doesn't give anything away. 

"Sit down," Harry says. He waits a moment, but Draco doesn't do anything, can't, so Harry pulls out the chair opposite, and sits down. 

Harry looks at him with an eyebrow cocked, and Draco sits down. 

Draco is dressed like he should be at an office too, shirt and pressed trousers and shoes with an extra buff of shine. Two business acquaintances, discussing terms. 

Harry doesn't bother asking him if he wants tea, just pours him a cup and pushes it across the table. The milk isn't in a jug, just in a small plastic carton with TESCO on the front. 

Draco adds a lot of milk, until his tea is milky and insipid. 

"There's cake," Harry says, opening the flimsy cardboard box. It turns out to be a bakery box, and inside is a cream horn, a vanilla slice, and a little fruit tart. "You always liked sweet things, didn't you? You were always getting sweets from your mum."

Draco's mouth waters. "I gave most of them away. Bought my friends, even then."

Harry rolls his eyes. "You don't like cakes? Because you look like you like them."

"I'm cursed with enthusiastic hips," he says lightly, but Harry's turned the box around, angling it so that Draco can take a better look. "Cakes cling."

Harry doesn't bother rolling his eyes, but clearly that's mostly just because he can't be arsed. "Life's too short," he says. "I said you'd get what you wanted if you came here today."

Draco's still staring at the cake box. "I didn't think you meant cream cakes."

"Don't see why not," Harry says. "You want cream cakes and you don't think you can have them. You want sex that makes you feel dirty, and you don't think you can have it unless you're pretending to be somebody else and only doing it with strangers. Have a cake."

Draco takes the little fruit tart. It's covered in a shiny glaze, strawberries falling over themselves to stand tall. When he bites into it, he makes the kind of noise that embarrasses him down to his core. 

"Good, then?" Harry asks. 

"Maybe," Draco says. There's cream on his lip. He has to wipe it away with the back of his hand. He licks it up, because Harry's watching him and because he can't not. "I want to be used," he says. "I want to feel dirty and ashamed and like I'm nothing. I want you to come on me and ignore me like I'm not there. I want you to treat me like I'm just a hole to fuck, like I'm nothing. Like I'm a thing, if you want."

Harry's watching him. "Humiliate you," he says. 

He takes another bite of cake. "Yes." He picks a piece of strawberry off the top of his tart. It's sweet on his tongue. "You should know. I haven't done this. It's just been-- a few times. I've only been out a few times."

"Before your mother went away."

"Never before she left," Draco says quickly. "Only since then."

"Were you a virgin?"

Draco flushes. "Still am. Properly. They never did manage to sell my virginity off."

"Shame," Harry says. "And there you were, showing me your hole like you weren't untouched."

"You asked."

"And you couldn't show me quick enough. Desperate, you were." He pauses. "Show it to me now, again. Take down the glamour and show it to me again."

"Harry."

"Finish your cake, Draco. Take down the glamour, kneel on the floor, and present your hole to me like you're worth anything more than that. And afterwards, you can have another cake."

Draco glances over at the bakery box. He shouldn't have another cake. All those years of being sent sweets and cakes, all these years living with his mother and indulging her in lonely afternoon teas with tiny cakes, and him never being able to eat all that he wanted. Never giving in to how much he wanted the cream cakes. 

He finishes his tart, stands up, and takes down the glamour. He takes his clothes off with the same spell, and they tumble down to his feet, even his socks. 

"Fold those up," Harry says, like Harry's ever folded anything in his life. Still, Draco folds them up, carefully placing them on the chair he was just sitting on. His little dick's all stiff. Harry smirks at it, and Draco gets even more turned on. 

He's fucked up, but right now he doesn't fucking care. 

He kneels down on the kitchen floor, facing away from Harry, and leans down until he's pressing his cheek against the tile. Then he spreads his legs until he's presenting his hole for inspection. 

"Glad you've already learnt how to present," Harry says, and for some reason he's not standing behind Draco, but crouching down next to him with a cream horn in his hand. "No," he says. "No hands. I want your hands pulling your arse cheeks apart. Your hole on show. You can eat it from my hand, and clean me up afterwards."

Draco's dick throbs. For a second he meets Harry's gaze, then he reaches behind him to put his hole on proper display, and sticks out his tongue to lick the cream from Harry's hand. 

This, he thinks, is a new fucking low. 

He doesn't stop.


	3. Chapter 3

Draco has a meeting in the morning. He dresses carefully, flicking away the small creases in the sleeves from where his clothes have been stored. He's immaculate by the end of it, carefully fitted wool coat over his suit. He skims his hands over his hips, thinks just for a second about Harry Potter telling him that life's too short, and then he gathers up his meeting notes and apparates to his meeting. 

He's a charms consultant, occasionally showing up to do a carefully exquisite job of untangling some cretin's botched charm project, taking a large Gringotts deposit with him when he leaves, and never having to work with the same people twice. He's only called in as a last resort, when every other charms specialist has retired in confused shame, and as such, he can set his own price. Which is good, because these kinds of projects don't come along all that often, and when they do, no one wants to admit they're working with Draco fucking Malfoy. 

The Malfoys may have walked away from the Manor and everything that had come before, but their past hadn't walked away from them. Or, more specifically: him. His mother gave quiet card parties in her Parisian apartment, and held refined afternoon drinks in their Italian lake house. She'd left her past very firmly in Britain when Draco's father had died, and now the only person carrying their past with them was Draco. 

His meeting, as it turns out, is with Ron Weasley, who looks Draco up and down with the kind of sneer that Draco only really wants to take from strangers. 

"It's you," Ron Weasley says, when he answers the door. 

"Who did you expect?" Draco ask, and he's been pretending his whole life, so one more time won't matter. 

"Not you," Ron says. 

Draco rolls his eyes, and taps the papers in his hand. "I believe you have a job for me to do?"

"Not me," Ron says, looking him up and down. "You think I'd pay you to do anything other than walk away forever?"

"You can pay me to do that if you'd like," Draco says. "No skin off my nose."

"Nah," Ron says. "More than my life's worth if Ginny thinks I've sent you away." He hands Draco a pile of papers, most of which are house plans and old notes receipts for charm work. "Sort it out, mate. Can't have wards trying to eat people." There's a pause. "Although if they wanted to do us one last favour, they could eat you on the way out."

"Charmed," Draco says, and doesn't for one second let himself think about the possibility that Harry Potter's shared any of Draco's secrets with his friends. 

The work takes him five hours, or thereabouts, and there are a few hairy bits in the middle where there's a slightly higher than likely possibility that he might actually have been eaten by some quite inept charms work on the wards of Ginny Weasley's new house. And that's something for the corner of his brain that's not focused entirely on his work: why is Ginny Weasley still Ginny Weasley and not Ginny Potter, and why is she buying tumbledown old houses for knockdown prices with some fairly stellar charms work that comes along with it. Not that Draco paid any attention to _The Prophet_ or had any particular source for society gossip; part of being shunned for the whole of his twenties did rather leave one out in the cold when it came to being in touch with the latest things. There had been that whole expectation thing that Potter would end up married to Miss Weasley, with a whole parcel of tiny sproglets by this point. Except Ginny was off touring with her Quidditch team, and Harry Potter was picking up boys in bars and hand feeding old enemies cream cakes whilst they presented their arsehole for comment, so clearly something had detoured from the path of least resistance over the years. 

He finishes undoing the ward charms and spells his equipment back into his case. It's leather, and engraved with his initials. It would have been a 21st birthday present from his father, but unfortunately his father was imprisoned at the time, so he'd had it for his 23rd birthday instead and liked it. 

Going back outside, he finds Ron Weasley in a deckchair next to a Volkswagen camper van, all set up on the pavement like he's never heard of privacy. He's eating an ice cream, of all things, and reading the newspaper. He's wearing flip-flops. It's terrible.

"Of course," Draco says. "Of course this is what you're doing."

"I'm not going anywhere near those wards," Ron says. "And I wasn't leaving you on your own either."

"Someone's got to stop me from taking off with the silverware," Draco says. He waits a beat, but Ron doesn't say anything else, and certainly not a thank you. He's had the little notification from Gringotts that the deposit has gone into his account now that he's marked the job as complete. Time to go. "Excuse me."

"You're not going to set the new wards up, then?" Ron calls after him. 

Draco doesn't bother looking back. "Out of spec, I think you'll find." 

"Fine. Good riddance," Ron says, and Draco waits until he's around the corner before he apparates back home. 

***

At home, he steps over the dirty stain on the tilework, and waits until he's in his bedroom before he starts to strip. He's methodical and neat: coat, then suit, underwear and socks until he's naked. 

Then he reaches for the charmed coin in the little green bowl on his bedside table. Hand-blown Venetian glass, an accent both picked and displayed by his mother. The coin shines silver. He runs his thumb over it until it glows. _Home_ , he whispers, and the letters settle gentle into the metal. _Naked_ follows that, then _waiting_.

The reply takes a minute. _I'm busy_ , followed by _wait like that._

Draco's _how long for_ goes unanswered. 

The night before, he'd ended up with a face smeared with cream and sugar and flakes of pastry as he'd attempted to eat a cream horn out of Harry's hand. Harry, clearly bored, had taken to fingering the tip of his finger in and out of Draco's arsehole -- the first person to ever touch him there -- and Draco had disgraced himself by coming on the floor before the cream horn was even finished. 

After that, when he'd licked Harry's hand clean of cream and pastry, Harry had made him clean up his mess on the floor by hand, no spell work allowed, and hadn't allowed him to wipe his face. He'd called Draco filthy, and dirty, and then he'd flicked through a book at the same time as wanking himself off and coming on Draco's face, and then he'd sent Draco home with instructions for how to contact him today. 

The bell, when it rings, is a ringing peal that reminds Draco unquenchably of his mother. It isn't like he usually receives guests now that his mother is living on the continent, but before she'd gone she'd dined and held carefully curated card parties and weekend lunches. A deliberately quiet plan to eventually auction off Draco's virginity to the nearest reputable and agreeable witch, which had messily failed to come to fruition when Draco had begged his mother to stop. 

There would never be children, he'd told her, not least because he couldn't bear the idea of bringing anyone else into this world to ever be as lonely as he was, but also because his dick liked things like this and didn't like things like getting hard around women. 

_I'm sure you'll come around_ , his mother had said, and then she'd cried when she'd realised he wasn't going to. It wasn't him being gay that she had a problem with -- although she might if she knew even the littlest part of what he really liked to think about when he came -- but the end of the Black line. 

They didn't speak of Teddy Lupin. 

The continent had followed, and so had Draco going down on his knees for anyone who'd use him. 

Draco goes naked to the door. 

Harry glances down at Draco's cock, then raises an eyebrow, amused. "Anyone could see," he says, and Draco doesn't bother explaining any of the complex spellwork that protects his home from the outside world. "But I forgot, you like that, don't you?"

"I do," Draco says, and steps back so that Harry can come in. He closes the door after Harry, and the series of locks whirr away to themselves as the magic works like clockwork. Harry glances at him. 

"I heard you saw Ron today," Harry says. He's dressed casually, jeans and a t-shirt with a checked shirt over the top. He wanders over to the mirror, and Draco can't help but track Harry's footsteps across the tiles, at the dull stain that he wants to remind him of how low he's fallen. "I heard you weren't very polite."

Draco's heart pounds. "He's a wanker," he says. 

"Aren't we all," Harry says. He glances down at the floor, then into the mirror. "Is this where you wank when you get home from those back rooms?"

Draco flushes. "Yes."

"Fucking desperate for it, aren't you?" Harry continues, his hands still in his pockets. 

Draco drops his gaze. 

"I'll take you out," Harry says. "Parade you around the seediest back rooms if you'd like. Find the people who couldn't give a shit who's on their knees for them, get them to come on your face. Wank two of them off as one of them fucks your mouth. None of them paying attention to you. They don't care who you are, and you don't want them to, right? You want them to think that you're nothing, that you're worthless. Just something for them to come on. Or come in. Holes, right? Just fucking holes. Say it."

"Just holes," Draco says. "That's what I am, just a hole." He's staring down at his cock, and he's so fucking hard. His tip's slick with pre-come and want. 

"That's all I want," Harry goes on. "Something I can mess up and not worry about having to clean up afterwards."

"You can mess me up," Draco says. His mouth's dry. 

"Oh, I know that," Harry says. "Everyone knows that. You're begging for it. You're begging strangers for it. Bet you'd beg Ron for it if I told you to."

"No." Draco's head shoots up. 

"I bet you would. Imagine him seeing you like this. Seeing that fucking useless cock of yours, and how hard you are. Think of the shame, Draco. Think of what it would feel like if you had to beg him to let you suck him off. You would if I told you to. You'd beg."

"No," Draco says, but he can already imagine it in his head. He doesn't want it, not really, but he knows how it would feel, and he wants _that_. He fucking craves that. "What do you want?"

"A wank," Harry says. "It's been a long day. Some dickhead no one cares about was rude to my best friend."

"I'll wank you," Draco blurts out. "I'll do it for you."

Harry's gaze is full of disdain. "Does it look like I want you?"

"You don't have to look at me."

Harry rolls his eyes. "If I want my cock warming I'll know who to call on. Nah, I just want to come on something I don't have to clean up."

Draco's skin burns. "A come rag."

"Even come rags you have to pick up afterwards," Harry says. "You're lower than a come rag."

Draco might come right here, right now. He has been fucking craving someone speaking to him like this for _years_. 

"Fucking hell," Harry says. "Look how hard you are. I tell you a come rag's better than you are, and you're practically coming on the floor. You're so fucked up."

"Use me," Draco says, and if he sounds like he's begging it's because he is. "Please. I want it."

"You got somewhere comfortable to sit around here, or what?" He pushes open a nearby door. "What's through here?"

"My mother's sitting room," Draco says. "No--"

"Perfect," Harry says. "You can imagine her knowing what you're doing in it."

Draco's whole body burns, but he doesn't tell Harry to stop. He follows him in, stands as Harry gets himself comfortable on one of the sofas, unzipping his jeans and pushing them down to mid thigh. 

"Well? Don't just stand there. Lie down on the floor. Face down, does it look like I want to look at you?"

Draco lies down on the rug by the sofa. His cock presses against the soft, white pile. His arms are down by his sides. He turns his cheek so that he's facing away from Harry, can't see what he's doing, and he closes his eyes. Nothing, that's what he wants to be. Just something to be used. A rag for Harry's come. Just nothing. 

Then, for the next five minutes, he hears nothing but the slick slap of Harry Potter's hand on his cock, his breath starting quiet and ended up rushed and hitched, the only indication after minutes of him masturbating that he's anywhere near the end. Because Harry Potter is masturbating on Draco's mother's nice sofa, and Draco is hard and leaking against her rug, and the shame burns through him like the plague. 

Harry comes on him, striping his lower back and the top of his arse, and Draco closes his eyes again, and thinks: _nothing_.

Harry doesn't ask him to move and Draco doesn't volunteer. He stays where he is until Harry nudges him with his toe and wipes his hand off on Draco's thigh. 

"I masturbate a lot," Harry tells him, like that's an okay thing to share. 

"Good, Potter," Draco says finally, without rolling over. His dick's still hard. His whole body feels like it's waiting for release. "Would you like a prize?"

"Just saying. Could get you over at any time. Any time I didn't want to make a mess of anything valuable."

Draco's dick jumps. "Any time you needed a come rag."

"If the cap fits." There's a pause. "How hard are you right now?"

"So hard," Draco says. 

"Tell me what you are," Harry says. 

"A hole."

"Right now you're not," Harry reminds him. 

"A come rag."

"That's better." Harry sounds lazily satisfied. "Rub yourself off against the rug. No hands. I want to see how desperate you are."

It's his mother's rug, in his mother's sitting room, and he's naked and face down on the floor. He starts to rock his hips down against the soft rug, and his dick likes that, likes the pressure and the angle and the sheer desperate shame of what it is he's doing. 

"Make a mess of the rug, Malfoy, like the filthy pig you are."

Draco moans. He can't help it. 

"Pig," Harry says again. "No, not even that. A piglet. Filthy piglet. Rutting against the rug like an animal. That's what you are."

_Piglet_ , Draco thinks. _Filthy piglet_ , and he comes on his mother's special rug. 

He doesn't clean up after himself. He lies in his own mess, Harry's come drying across his back, until Harry urges him up and onto his knees. 

"Up you get," Harry says, and Draco feels too stupid and wrung out to do anything else. He stumbles a bit as he clambers to his feet, and then he sits down next to Harry on the sofa, awkward. Harry's dick's still out. Draco's still naked. 

Harry fumbles in the pocket of his shirt, and comes out with something tiny, which -- when Harry whispers a spell -- grows into a tin. A tin of Turkish Delight. "You like Turkish Delight," he says, like it's not even a question, which it sort of isn't. His mother had sent him tin after tin at school, and Draco had savoured his two pieces and then let the rest of the house at the remains. "Rose and pistachio."

"Yes," Draco says, because he doesn't know what he's supposed to say. 

"Come here," Harry says, and he pats his lap, which Draco absolutely does not understand. It takes Harry literally manoeuvring him into position, legs over Harry's lap, before Draco gets where he's supposed to be sitting. 

"You like Turkish Delight, don't you, Draco?"

Draco licks his lips. Cake clings to his hips. _Life's too short, Draco._

"Draco."

"Yes," he says, and Harry opens the tin and takes out a piece, drowning in icing sugar. He holds it to Draco's lips, and the sugar catches on his chin and falls like snow against his his cock. 

Draco eats that piece, and another piece, and another piece. He eats a fourth piece and there's sugar on his nipples and on Harry's fingertips and across his cheek. There's so much sugar, like the tin is full of it, like tiny sweets against a sea bed of sugar, and it's got everywhere. 

Half the tin has gone. "Piglet," Draco says softly, as Harry holds another piece to his lips. 

"If you like," Harry says, his thumb pressed to Draco's lip so that the sugar catches his chin. 

"Why are you doing this?" Draco asks, after he's opened his mouth for another piece. 

"Every action has an equal and opposite reaction, Draco," Harry says. There's another pause. "Because I want to. Because you want to."

"Can we do it again?" He doesn't want to ask.

This time Harry catches icing sugar between his finger and thumb, and holds it over Draco's chest before letting go. He leans in after it, catching it on his tongue. 

"Yes," Harry says, after a moment, and he reaches back into the tin. "But we haven't finished this time yet."

"Harry."

"Open up, Piglet," Harry says, offering him another piece, and Draco - fearing that he'll stop - does.


	4. Chapter 4

He's back at Ginevra Weasley's tumbledown, broken house when the charmed silver coin he carries with him glows with a message. He feels it call to him, feels the warmth in his pocket as the message sings to him, but he stays where he is, attention focused carefully on Miss Weasley as she explains the complex wards she requires from him, and what she's willing to pay. 

Quite frankly, it appears to be somewhat beyond his understanding of the Weasley family's budget for such things, but maybe he's as wrong about their wealth as he has been about virtually everything else, and anyway, he hasn't got any other work on at the moment to call him away. 

"There are some people," Miss Weasley says to him, "that hold me accountable for Harry's broken heart. And they're willing to let me know by any means possible to them." 

Draco, for want of anything better to say or do, responds with a clipped nod. 

"There are others," she goes on, "that rather wish we'd never been together at all. Those people should best be kept at arm's length as well."

"Surely," Draco says carefully, "at least one of those groups of people should feel satisfied right now."

"You would think," Ginny says, but she turns her hand over, palm up. "They don't, however, so I want better wards. I believe you are the person to build them."

"I can't imagine your brother is going to believe I've done them right."

"Will he be right?" Ginny asks. The long hair she had at school is gone, and instead she has short, tufty red hair, curled up at the front into a quiff. As an adult, Draco hasn't been around many women with short hair, and he wonders if this pre-dates her relationship breakdown with Harry. His mother had thoughts about short hair and societal expectations, and the value of Draco's virginity. She was wrong about that, though, and he suspects there's a whole world out there of families that aren't crippled by the weight of expectation. 

"No," he says finally. "The wards will be to your specifications." The warmth of the coin in his pocket makes him want to slide his hand in and steal its heat. "I'll return at the end of the week, as arranged."

She's not staying in the house, not whilst it's unwarded, and she comes out with him to the gate. She doesn't apparate first, waiting for him to go, so he nods his good bye and apparates home, the coin already warm in his hand. 

In his hall at home, ward specifications already dropped on the hall table, he holds the coin in his palm as the message glows bright. _Come rag_ , it says, and Draco's suddenly, suddenly hard. There's a follow up message. _I'm waiting_.

He's already late, and Harry is already waiting. He doesn't bother changing his clothes or unbuttoning his coat. He follows the siren call of his coded message, and apparates to Harry's home. 

Harry's in the sitting room on a sofa, feet flat on the floor, elbows resting on his knees. "You're late," he says, without looking up. 

"I'm sorry," Draco says, hesitating in the doorway. "I was at a meeting."

"Does it look like I care?" Harry says, and he still doesn't look at him. "I wanted a wank. Come here."

Draco comes to stand by him. "You can come on me."

"I know," Harry says, and this time he looks up. He rolls his eyes. "Why do you think I bothered sending for you? I had a use for a rag. Something to come on."

_Something_ , Draco notes, with ill disguised heat. Not someone. He starts to undo his coat. 

"No," Harry says, stopping him by closing his hand around Draco's wrist. "It's not my fault you're lazy and didn't come prepared. Do you think I have time to wait around while you take your clothes off? Down on your knees."

Draco hesitates. He's still in his coat. He's still dressed for work. He'd been meeting with Harry's ex-girlfriend. 

"You're my fucking come rag," Harry says, undoing his jeans and shoving them down to his hips. "And I wanted a wank. Get down."

Draco drops to his knees. He starts to kneel in between Harry's legs, but Harry shakes his head and makes him face the other way, away from him. He makes him lean forward onto his elbows so that Harry's presented with Draco's arse and the curve of his back. His coat's knee length, a beautiful black wool, exquisite. 

Somehow, doing this with his clothes on is even worse than naked, and Draco burns with it. As he listens to Harry masturbate behind him, taking his time, waiting to use Draco to come on and not even acknowledge him, Draco gets harder and harder, and more and more desperate. 

He's nothing, just a thing for Harry to use and discard, to come on and forget. He's a thing. Worthless. A hole. 

Draco comes in his trousers with a shuddering, bitten-off sob. 

Harry ignores him, just carries on masturbating, and it's another couple of minutes before he hears Harry cry out, and start to come. He can't feel it hit his coat, not like he can feel it against his skin, and the fact that he's been used and can't feel it, the fact that he's been treated like a thing and he can't even be aware of it, it's a feeling he can't even understand. He can't articulate how it feels to finally, finally get what he's needed for so long. That even if he knew how to ask for it, he wouldn't have been able to. 

"Malfoy," Harry says, after a minute. "Did you fucking come?"

"Yes," Draco says, still down on his elbows and knees. His cheek is resting on his hand.

"Yes, _Harry_ ," Harry says. "Say yes, Harry, my tiny cock's so fucking useless I came all over myself because I'm a dirty little animal." He bumps his toe into Draco's foot. Draco's still wearing his shoes. He's still wearing all of his outdoor things. "Say it."

Draco's skin burns. "Yes, Harry. My tiny cock's so fucking useless I came all over myself."

"Because I'm a dirty little animal," Harry repeats. 

"Because I'm a dirty little animal," Draco says, and his face feels like it's on fire. He's never done this in his work clothes. What he's wanted and what he's got has always been so divorced from his precise real life. Now Harry's come on his coat. 

"Because you're a piglet," Harry says. 

"Because I'm a piglet," Draco says, and he's hard again. "I'm a filthy little piglet. I'm a come rag."

"People use old socks for come rags," Harry says. "They use any old crap. Something they don't care about anymore. What do you think that makes you?"

"Makes me nothing," Draco says. 

"Yeah," Harry says. "It does."

Draco shudders. He has to reach down to cup himself through his trousers. He's all wet and the mess he's made of himself is disgusting and shameful. 

He want to do it again. 

" _Nothing_ doesn't get to come, Draco," Harry says. "In fact, Draco, coming wasn't allowed. Do you think you deserved to come when you'd arrived so late when I summoned you? When you arrived still dressed? Do you think dirty little piglets get to wear clothes when they're just a come rag?"

"No," Draco says, rubbing his hand over his little, stupid cock. 

"No what, Draco?"

"No, dirty little piglets don't get to wear clothes when they're just a come rag."

"That's right, Draco. Not as stupid as you're behaving, are you?"

"No, sir," Draco says. The _sir_ slips out.

Harry laughs at that, and embarrassment courses through him. 

"Next time, Malfoy, next time I summon my come rag, you come dressed for it, you understand? You arrive naked. Why's that, Draco?"

"Because dirty little piglets don't get to wear clothes when they're just a come rag," Draco repeats. "And when they've got a stupid little cock."

"You have got a stupid little cock," Harry agrees. "And I don't remember saying you could touch it."

Draco whines. He's made such a disgusting mess of his underwear. He's all wet and kind of slimy and the shame makes it feel like there are tiny little spells going off all over his body, tingles and shivers. 

"You seem to like coming in your pants," Harry says, like he's just thinking about it. "Maybe one time I'll make you come over and over again, and make you sit in your mess all day. If you like being dirty, maybe you deserve it."

"I do," Draco says, before he realises he'd said he deserved something, when he doesn't deserve anything. 

"I can still see you touching yourself," Harry says. "You think I can't see?"

Draco whines again. The idea of Harry making him come over and over again, and being made to sit in it, sit in his shame, is making him so hard. 

"Stop touching," Harry says. "Piglets don't get to touch. Piglets rut, Draco. They rut like animals, and what are you?"

"An animal." He wants to touch so much, wants to be dirty and come. He drops his hand back down to the floor. Maybe he is an animal. Maybe he shouldn't get to use his hands. 

"Get up."

Draco stumbles to his feet. His pristine clothes are crumpled and messed up. There's never that much to see with his stupid little cock, but it juts out a little bit at least. He can feel the damp patch even if he can't see it on the dark fabric. His hair's everywhere and his skin feels like it's on fire. 

Harry points lazily to the arm of the sofa. "Rub yourself off on that," he says, and Draco must look confused because Harry's expression turns exasperated. "You don't get to touch. If you want to come, you rut against the sofa." He waves his hand towards the door. "If you don't want to come, you know where the door is."

Draco does know where the door is, but he doesn't want to use it. He wishes he could take his coat off, but he shouldn't have been wearing it anyway. Not when he'd been summoned to be Harry's come rag. He should have known. He positions himself by the arm of the sofa, glancing at Harry, but Harry's not paying him any attention. He's zipping himself back into his jeans and reaching for a magazine from next to him. It's a Muggle one, Draco can tell, because none of the pictures are moving. Harry starts flicking through the magazine, like Draco's not even there, and that's even worse. 

The sofa's not quite high enough to be comfortable, and Draco has to bend his knees as he hesitantly leans in so that his cock's pressed up against the arm. He rolls his hips. 

"We haven't got all day, Draco."

Draco leans over the sofa arm, bracing himself, and starts to rut against it. The friction does feel good, and rubbing himself like this does make him harder. He's so disgusting, all sticky and wet from where he'd come before. It's shameful. His breath catches, something about the angle, and Harry rolls his eyes in disdain. Then Draco just gives into it. He ruts like an animal, like the piglet he's discovering himself to be, his underwear filthy and wet as he rubs himself off. He makes noises, panting, groaning, hips pushing against the sofa arm, because he's so close, so fucking close to coming again and he can't help it. Rutting like an animal against Harry's furniture, and Harry's not even paying him any attention, Harry doesn't care, because why would you care what your come rag was getting up to when you weren't coming? Why would it matter what something that was just holes, holes for your cock, was doing? Draco's not being quiet. He's grunting, and it feels so good, it feels so good and so dirty and he's just a filthy animal. He's just a dirty fucking animal who's come in his pants once already. His stupid little cock is loving it. Draco's loving it. 

He comes, panting and sweating, and folds himself over the sofa arm. He rests his cheek against the back of the sofa, and closes his eyes. 

After a minute, Harry touches his hand to Draco's elbow. "Take your coat off," he says. "Take off your shoes."

Draco stands up. It feels a bit monumental, even achieving that. His pants feel disgusting. He takes his coat off and he's too out of it to do much more with it than leave it over the arm of the sofa, and then slips off his shoes. Harry's already undoing the laces with his wand. 

"Come and lie over my lap," Harry says, and Draco doesn't understand why he'd do that, or why Harry would even ask, but he does it anyway, confused and uncertain. 

But Harry doesn't do anything. He just lets Draco lay there, still in his shirt and his trousers and his socks, his underwear wet and revolting with come. 

After a couple of minutes, he strokes Draco's hair, and Draco's entire body twitches. He strokes him again, fingers just catching. 

"You're okay," Harry says, after a while. "You're okay just where you are."

Draco hasn't got it in him to try and understand it all right now, so he doesn't. He closes his eyes, and for a few minutes he just gets himself back, all the pieces of him consolidating into something whole. 

"I was with Ginny Weasley," Draco says, eyes still closed. "When you sent me that message."

Harry doesn't react at all. "Were you?" he says finally. "Did she ask you to set up her wards?"

"Yes," Draco says, and Harry doesn't ask anything else, and Draco has nothing else to add. But, "I always assumed you'd get married."

Harry hums. He's still stroking Draco's hair, but sometimes his fingers dip lower, over the collar of Draco's shirt and down over his back. "I think we did too."

"But you didn't."

"No," Harry says. 

"Can I ask why?" Draco's eyes are still close, which is probably why he's got the courage to ask. They're not friends, him and Harry, and one day Harry's going to want Draco to do something for him, and then they'll be equal and this will be done. 

Harry doesn't say anything for a while. "I kept trying to give her what she needed. Except there's a difference between what I thought she wanted and what she actually needed."

"That and the fact you fuck boys in back rooms."

"Everyone's got to have a hobby," Harry says. There's a pause. "We had no idea what we were going to grow up to want, essentially, and when we got there it was two different things. So that was that, basically."

"Basically," Draco says, because he can tell there's more to it.

"All you're getting."

"Fair," Draco says. 

Harry shifts his attention and strokes his hand over Draco's bum. "I'll take you out on Saturday night if you'd like. Find you a back room. Get you a queue of people you can suck off."

"Yes?"

"Yeah," Harry says, still stroking Draco's bum. "If you want."

"I'll put my best glamour on."

"And I'll put a perfectly passable mediocre one on." He pats Draco's arse. "Never was that great at glamours."

"I'll teach you," Draco says sleepily. 

Harry doesn't say anything to that, so Draco gives into it, just for a minute, and rests.


	5. Chapter 5

Saturday, when it comes around, sees Draco turning up at Harry's house relatively late in the evening, dressed casually in dark trousers and a grey t-shirt. They're the kind of clothes he always wears when he's going to take himself out for the evening, and Harry had promised him a seedy back room and a supply of the kind of men who were going to take advantage of Draco's eager mouth being on offer. He's not wearing his glamour yet, and he's not entirely certain why. It's not as if Harry didn't see straight through it before, or that he hasn't seen it on two more occasions since then. Or that he's not going to see a variation of it tonight. 

But still. He shows up in Harry's vestibule after apparating, just as himself, but dressed down. 

Harry takes one look at him, and smirks. "Oh no," he says, stepping back so that Draco can step inside Harry's house. "That's not going to do at all."

"What's wrong with it?" Draco asks. "This is casual."

Harry's smirk hasn't gone anywhere. "It's perfectly neutral," he says. "If you wanted to blend in, you'd be fine. But you don't, do you? You want to get your cock out and have people notice. You know, before they realise you're only good for coming on."

Draco shivers, and Harry grins. "I've got just the thing."

Harry starts to lead him upstairs, and this is new. They've stayed firmly downstairs before, but he doesn't say anything. He's not exactly sure of where they stand tonight, at least at this point. It feels like Harry's gearing up for something rather than anything else, and Draco's willing to follow him. He's the same, buoyant at the thought of what's coming, of getting to go down on his knees and be humiliated and shamed and used. Even more than that, to have Harry take him, to take charge and decide where they're going and what he's going to wear. It's easy to follow Harry up the stairs and along the hall to what must be his bedroom. 

The room isn't quite what he's expecting, if only because he's never allowed himself to put much thought into what Harry Potter's bedroom must look like, other than assuming there would be some kind of reddish-gold lion theme. There's not explicitly a reddish-gold lion theme, although there is a red armchair by the window that's mostly being used as an extension of his wardrobe, judging by the amount of clothes hanging off it. 

"You should take more care of your clothes," he says, fingers grazing a pile of discarded hoodies. Harry's bed is large and his sheets unpressed. They're creased, the duvet a bit haphazardly pulled up to a mountain of pillows. They're also green. "Don't you press or iron anything?"

Harry sticks his head around the door. "Absolutely not," he says. "Life is too short for unnecessary housework."

Draco considers a life without neat, pressed clothes. His mother might have a conniption if he showed up at her door in anything that looked as untidy as Harry's clothes pile. He's not sure he _could_ wear anything that he picked up off the arm of a chair. "Are these worn?"

"Some of them," Harry says. 

Draco stares in some horror at Harry's mixed clothing discards. 

"Why?" Harry asks, and there might be something else to his question, a slight change in tone. "You want to take charge of storing my clothes now?"

Some part of Draco that he's shoved into a box flickers into life, a small pocket of heat in his belly. He slips a hand into his pocket, casual, and glances towards the window. There are a couple of plants on the windowsill, a few books piled up by the bed, one folded out onto the floor to keep a page. Two half empty mugs on the bedside table. A glass of water. 

"Because you can, you know. If you want to."

"My grandfather had a valet," Draco says, without looking at Harry. The wardrobe door's open and a stray hoodie is falling out of the bottom of the door, not even hung up. "It wasn't just elves. We had staff."

"I was the staff when I was growing up," Harry says, relatively easily for something Draco isn't convinced is a joke. "Anyway. My clothes aren't going anywhere. If you want to come and provide a service for me sometime, then you can."

_Provide a service_. Draco's hand quivers. For a second he imagines working in here, taking all of Harry's clothes out and putting them back, ordered and neat and pressed. It being Draco's _job_. He looks away. 

Harry disappears out of the room again. "There's something on the bed for you," he says, and when Draco turns around, he expects it to be clothes, but it's not. In the middle of the bed there's a box, circular and small. **Fortnum and Mason Coffee Truffles** , the box says, and Draco's mouth waters. He sits down, slips off the gold ribbon, and opens the box. The truffles are decadent and beautifully decorated, a gold shimmer over some of them. Draco doesn't know who Fortnum and Mason are, but they're clearly expensive. 

"What are these for?"

"For you," Harry says, coming back into the room. He's got his toothbrush in his hand, and he's changed his t-shirt. Draco didn't realise they were dressing already. "You like coffee, don't you? And chocolate?"

Draco swallows. "Yes," he says. 

"Well," Harry says. "Have one."

Draco's hand hovers over the box. Harry's gone again, toothbrush in hand, and Draco hesitates over the chocolates. His mother taught him moderation and measure, elegance and order. His father had taught him something different entirely, and the first time it hadn't got him what he wanted was when an eleven year old Harry Potter had refused his hand. 

_Life's too short_ , Harry had said, and maybe he was right. 

He takes his time picking, moderation being everything. The gold ones were too beautiful. The dark ones too exquisite. He goes for the third kind, and takes a bite. It's rich, and strong, and he groans with it. 

"That's right," Harry tells him. The toothbrush has gone. "That's right, Draco. Have another."

Draco hadn't even heard him come in. 

He takes a dark one. "Harry--"

"I bought them for you," Harry says, coming a little closer. On the wall behind him is a large painting, a little abstract, of a wolf and a stag and a dog. The sun's going down and the sky's orange. It's obviously an original. The frame isn't quite right and Draco can't help but wonder if he can find Harry a better one, one that fits better with the room. "Draco."

Draco drags his attention back to Harry. 

"You can have as many as you like," Harry tells him, and he's close enough to touch now, but he doesn't. "You can have the whole box if you want."

He takes a bite. It's sort of delicate, how small of a bite. He's used to small bites, to not being satisfied and never taking more. It's so, so strong, coffee rich and dark. It melts on his tongue like cream. The noise he makes is accidental. He flushes. 

Harry touches him then, cups his cheek in his hand and rubs his thumb over Draco's jaw. "Make as much noise as you want," he says. "Eat as many of them as you'd like to. They're yours."

Draco glances down. The Blacks were prone to hips, his mother had always said, but the Malfoy were exquisite. Draco was exquisite. 

Draco takes another chocolate, a gold one this time, and chooses not to think about how and when he got hard. 

"Another?" 

"You have one," Draco says. He nudges the box towards Harry. 

"No," Harry says. "I let myself have as much chocolate as I want, whenever I want it."

Draco makes a soft sound at the back of his throat. 

Harry strokes Draco's hair. "Is that something else that you need from me?" he asks. "Sweets whenever you want them, and permission to eat them?"

Draco is surprisingly, horribly hard. 

"I've already told you," Harry says. "I'll give you what you need."

"Why are you doing this?"

Harry's smile, just for a second, gone before Draco can place it, is rueful. "Right place, right time," he says finally, and it doesn't make much sense. 

"My mother always said two chocolates was decadent and three was greed."

Harry hums. "Sometimes it's kind. If someone likes sweet things, sometimes it's kind."

"What's going to happen tonight?"

"I'm going to take you out," Harry says. "I've found us a place with a back room I think you'll like. And it's Saturday night, people want to get off. And you want to get them off, don't you?"

Draco nods. Harry's still touching him, and it's making his skin hum. 

"You want strangers to come in your mouth, and on your face. You want them to use you. I'll get you a queue. Tell them to ignore you, if you want."

"What are you going to be doing?"

"Don't know," Harry says. "Maybe have my own fun."

Draco's heart speeds up. "You fuck boys in back rooms."

"Sometimes," Harry says, stroking Draco's hair behind his ear. "Sometimes they fuck me."

Draco goes red. 

"You can't fuck me," Harry goes on, still stroking. "Can you?"

"No."

"And why's that?"

"My cock's stupid and useless. It's too small."

"Definitely too small to fuck me," Harry agrees. "So I might get fucked. You can watch if you want." He sounds casual, but Draco's not so certain he is. "If you're not too busy."

"I could watch," Draco says. "Because I can't fuck you."

"You can't fuck anyone," Harry says. "Pointless little cock, hey?"

"Pointless," Draco says, and he can't fucking figure out if he's hard because Harry's telling him he can eat sweets or because he can't fuck and has to suck dick instead, but either way it's fucked up. He's a mess, it's all a mess, and Harry never ever looks at him like any of it is. 

"Have another chocolate," Harry says. "Then we'll get you dressed."

"I am dressed," Draco says, but he's eaten half of another truffle and he want another one. 

"You're not," Harry says, and he reaches down and cups Draco's dick in his hand. "Unless you can show me your dick in less than two seconds. Can you?"

There's chocolate on his lip. He licks it up. His jeans have a button and a zip and he's wearing underwear. He can't get all of that out of the way in less than two seconds. He doesn't even bother trying. 

"That's right," Harry says. "Let's make it easier, shall we?"

He lets go of Draco's dick then, and Draco whines at the lack of contact, but he licks his fingers clean of chocolate and watches as Harry gets a carrier bag out of a drawer. 

"I'm not wearing something that comes out of a carrier bag," Draco says. 

"You are," Harry says, and then he opens the bag and gets something out that makes Draco blanch. It's a crumpled black t-shirt with no sleeves with a roaring tiger on the front, loose fit, and it's followed by a pair of… beige trousers. They're loose too, with pockets at the knees, and on the thighs, and instead of having a button and a zip, they have a _fake_ button and zip, and they're elasticated. 

"What are they," Draco says, because he has to say something. 

"The club has a dress code," Harry says. "Not much of one, admittedly, because they're not going to care if you're out in the back with your pitiful dick hanging out, but apparently they do care if you're in the queue out the front in a tracksuit. And I care if you can't get your dick out in under two seconds, so, this was the only alternative with an elastic waistband."

Draco stares at the clothes in Harry's hands. 

"Someone has to humiliate you," Harry says. "And it might as well be me."

"Harry--"

"Clothes off, Draco." 

Draco stands up and takes his trousers and his top off. He leaves his underwear on, but Harry shakes his head. 

"Who said you could wear underwear?"

Draco colours. "Sorry," he says. He slips them off and then folds them up and puts them on the bed. His dick is pitifully hard. "Can I leave my socks on?"

Harry rolls his eyes. "I suppose," he says. "Hurry up, some of us want to get fucked tonight."

The t-shirt is weird. It doesn't have sleeves and it shows off his armpits. Draco has never, ever shown off his armpits. Not since he was a child and he tried to swim. He isn't naturally buoyant, it turns out, and he's covered up ever since. He's already pink even as he pulls it over his head. The neckline hangs too low and he feels skinny and on show. 

The trousers are even worse, there's no shape to them, and no style, and they hang baggy around his legs and the elasticated waistband is weird. 

"Do I tuck it in?"

Harry rolls his eyes. "For someone who's obsessed with ironing, you are criminally uninformed about Muggle fashion."

"Thank fuck," Draco says, but he obediently takes the canvas shoes Harry hands him, and puts them on. They're the wrong size, too big, but that's easily rectified with a bit of charms-work. 

"Embarrassed?" 

"Yes," Draco says.

"Good," Harry says. "There's a mirror in the hall. That's where I usually do my glamour." 

Draco nods, but he's already doing his. Dark hair, bit taller, bit wider. Less pointy. Softer. 

When Harry looks behind him, he looks surprised for no more than a second. "Of course," he says, and turns his attention back to the mirror. When he turns back around, he's taller too, darker, not a mirror image of his glamour from that first night, but like his older brother, or his cousin, or someone else that's close but not too close. "Ready to go?" 

"As I'll ever be," Draco says, and Harry reaches for his hand and they disappear with a _crack_. 

***

The club is busy and loud and the music pounds through his body and settles in his chest. People look him up and down as they pass, at his clothes, and Draco's never been poorly dressed in his life. His cheeks burn. He'd never have chosen something like this, this kind of casual humiliation. It wouldn't have come to his attention to even try it. They stop at the bar for a vodka and lemonade, and then Harry's leading him back through the crowds until they're going down a flight of steps and into a corridor busy with guys. There's a space when the corridor widens out, back in the shadows. 

"Down on your knees," Harry says, but Draco's already half way there, heart pounding. "Get that stupid cock out."

Draco pulls down his trousers. 

"God," someone says, "what's the point of that?"

"You're telling me," Harry says. "The only reason I keep him around is for his mouth."

It's a guy, early thirties, blond. "He yours?"

Harry shrugs, bored. "Kind of," he says. "He has his uses. Mostly just sucking me off."

It's like Draco's not even there. They're talking about him, not to him. He wants to cup his dick and make himself come. 

Harry taps Draco's thigh with the toe of his shoe. "Don't fucking wank," he says. He turns back to the guy. "Can't take him anywhere." He pauses. "You want a go?"

The guy looks surprised for a fraction of a second. "You don't mind?"

Harry rolls his eyes. "Open your mouth," he says to Draco. "Get on with it."

"Will he do my mate too?"

"He'll wank him off while he's doing you, if you want."

Then the guy's unzipping his trousers and shoving his cock into Draco's mouth, and Draco's taking it. He's taking it even though it's making his eyes water and his jaw ache. The guy's big. He's bigger than Harry, although Draco hasn't spent enough time sucking Harry off. He's fucking Draco's mouth and he's not even paying attention to him, he's calling his friend over and talking to Harry over the top of his head. Then Harry's taking Draco's hand and lifting it up, and then he's wrapping his hand around someone else's dick. Two dicks at once. The angle's weird and Draco's never been amazing at multi tasking but it doesn't matter. So the fuck what if he's not great at rhythm. He's not here to excel. He's here to be used, to be a hole. He's a hole. A rag for strangers to come on, and Harry promised him a queue. 

Harry promised to get him a queue. 

Spit drips from the guy's cock, running down Draco's chin. He's so thick. He sucks him down, wanking his friend off with his other hand, squeezing him in his fist. Neither of them are quick. His muscles ache and he hasn't even got through his first two. 

And then blow job guy shoots his load into Draco's mouth, and Draco does a shit job of swallowing. He loses half of it down his chin, and it drips down onto his tiger shirt, even as the guy's stepping back and finishing himself off with a couple of wanks with his fist. His mate's coming to the end too, and Draco turns his attention to him, opening his mouth in case he wants to finish off inside Draco's mouth. 

He does. He _does_ , and Draco finishes him off. Harry's talking over his head, something about his pointless cock. 

"Oh, I don't care," Harry says, "if you want to come on his face, I couldn't give a shit. Come on his tits for all I care." 

Draco's dick pulses with it, with Harry's lazy disengagement, his lack of care or attention. His second guy comes and pulls out. Draco sits back on his heels, breathless. He tries to stretch his jaw a bit. 

"Show Jonathan your tits, Piglet," Harry says, poking Draco in the shoulder. "He doesn't get a name," Harry continues, telling _Jonathan_ about Draco. Jonathan, who's about a foot taller than Harry and twice as broad. Harry's glamour is even taller than Harry himself is, so Jonathan's fucking huge. "Piglet, for fuck's sake. Get your tits out."

Draco, well-- he doesn't. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't have breasts. 

Harry rolls his eyes and reaches down for the hem of Draco's shirt. "Take it off," he says, and Draco pulls it over his head and doesn't know what to do with it, so he drops it on the floor. 

Harry steps back, next to Jonathan, who doesn't look particularly impressed. 

"They're all right to come on," Harry says finally, like he's looking for something to say. 

"He's not much of anything, is he?"

Draco burns with it. His cock jumps. 

"He's filthy," Harry goes on. "Found him rubbing one out on the arm of the sofa this week."

"Christ," Jonathan says. 

"You can use him if you want," Harry says. "He's a good enough hole if you want sucking off."

Jonathan doesn't look overly impressed. "Better a hole than not, I suppose," he says. "Is he not even going to clean himself up after last time?"

"Can't imagine he will, no," Harry says, unconcerned, and Draco makes up his mind to not even wipe his mouth until they leave. "Dirty piglet."

Draco is already reaching for Jonathan's cock, hands encircling his length, guiding him in. He sucks on the tip and wanks him off with one hand, cupping his balls with the other. He wants Jonathan to come, to come on Draco's face and mess him up so that Harry can watch him get dirtier. So Harry can watch how far Draco still has to fall into his humiliation. About much he wants it, needs it, craves it.

Jonathan doesn't come in Draco's mouth. He pulls out and comes on his face, and on his shoulder. 

After Jonathan there's Ahmed, who slaps Draco in the face with his cock, and a nameless guy who makes Draco put his hands behind his back so that he can wank himself off and come on his lips. There's Tim and his boyfriend Dave, and he wanks them both off as they kiss over the top of him, and he can't help but feel like he's just a rag. Nothing. A sex toy. The kind of thing Muggles and wizards alike buy at seedy sex shops in Soho. 

…Maybe Harry will take him. Maybe he'll ask. 

Except, when Tim and Dave have finished and gone, Harry's not by his side anymore. Harry's braced with his hands on the wall and his trousers down by his knees, and Harry's found someone with a big enough cock to fuck him. Harry's found someone to bracket him against the wall and fuck his cock into Harry's arse. Harry's found someone who's more than just a hole, more than just a rag to come on. Harry's found someone who isn't covered in strangers' come. Harry's found a tall blond guy with strong shoulders and a slim waist to fuck him, to hold his hips and slam his cock inside. 

Someone whose cock isn't stupid and useless and tiny and so, so fucking hard. 

When he looks up, Harry's watching him. He's getting fucked by a stranger in a seedy back room, and his eyes are on Draco. 

"You can wank," Harry tells him, breathless and panting, groaning from being fucked by someone who's Draco but a hundred times better. "Wank onto your shirt."

Draco's so hard he might die from it. He goes up onto his knees and wraps a hand around his cock. He's being cuckolded, in public, and now he's wanking his tiny, useless dick where people can see, where people are watching. Where Harry's watching. The shame burrows deep into him and doesn't come out. 

His tiger shirt is already dirty and damp from something but he doesn't care. He fists his little cock, the tip barely peeking out of his fist as Harry gets fucked by a proper cock. By a proper man who doesn't get off on humiliation and shame and being used like this. 

He doesn't last long, but then why should he? He's a come-hungry dirty piglet. He comes, panting, crying out, all over his bunched up tiger shirt. 

The guy fucking Harry doesn't last much longer either, but Harry doesn't come. When the guy pulls out, snapping off a condom and chucking it on the floor, Harry's still hard. He waits a minute, breathless, braced against the wall, and then he comes over to where Draco's waiting and crouches down. It looks like it aches. 

"Let's get you home," Harry says, like he's not the one who's just been fucked. 

Draco feels almost numb with it now. His skin is tight with drying come. 

"Put your shirt back on," Harry says, and fuck, his shirt's disgusting, and slimy in places, and Draco shudders as he pulls it back over his head. It's stained and wet and smells terrible. "You dirty, dirty boy."

Draco can't get hard again, not for another few minutes at least. He leans his forehead against Harry's shoulder and pulls his trousers up and over his dick. "You got fucked," he says, voice wrecked. 

"I did," Harry says. "And it turned you on."

"Yes," Draco says, and Harry almost smiles at that. 

The walk back through the club is thoroughly revolting, and Draco practically radiates shame whilst Harry keeps his head held high. He holds onto his wrist all the way down the road until he nudges them into an alleyway, his hand still wrapped around Draco's arm. 

He apparates them both back to his house with a _crack_ , and then they're in Harry's upstairs hall, right by his full length mirror. 

Draco can smell himself now that he's out of the club, and it's bad. He's revolting. He's dirty and what he's done is so fucking shameful, and --

Harry comes up behind him and rests his chin on Draco's shoulder, turning him so that they're both looking into the mirror. Harry smells like someone else, like he just got fucked by someone else. 

"My beautiful piglet," Harry says softly, against the shell of Draco's ear. "My dirty, dirty boy. Did you have fun tonight?"

Draco shivers and nods. In the mirror, he's wearing ill-fitting, come-stained clothes. He's got dirty knees and come on his face and in his hair and down his shirt. He's wearing a shirt stained with his own come, that he'd come on himself watching Harry getting fucked. It had been just what he'd wanted.

"Did you have a nice time?" Harry goes on, and he slides an arm around Draco's waist then, resting against the waistband of his trousers. 

"I'm so dirty," Draco says, and inexplicably he can feel himself getting hard again. 

"You are," Harry agrees. "My filthy little piglet."

"Your filthy little piglet," Draco says, a little dazedly. "I like it when you call me piglet."

"I know you do," Harry says, and he pushes at the waistband of the awful, horrible trousers. 

"Can we vanish these clothes and never look at them again?"

"I think we can run to that," Harry says, and then, somehow, there's some kind of spell that leaves Draco feeling like he's just touched by a warm breeze, and they're both naked in front of the mirror. The clothes are gone, Harry's too. 

Draco's pointless, stupid little dick juts out. "Thank you for taking me out," he says, because he can't think of anything else to say. Harry's still standing behind him, his arm is still around Draco's waist, and his chin's still resting on Draco's shoulder. 

"That's all right," Harry says. "But shush for a minute. I just want you to look in the mirror and see you for you are. My dirty, filthy, needy piglet."

Draco, skin flushed and dick jutting out, stands, and looks, and wants.

***

Cleaning spells never feel as good as actual washing, and Draco's fastidious enough not to want to settle. He keeps thinking Harry's going to send him home, but he doesn't, so he ends up standing in Harry Potter's shower, washing away other people's come whilst Harry takes a bath in the second bathroom. He doesn't touch his cock except for the brief clean he gives it with a face cloth with a picture of an elephant on it, because Harry is apparently the kind of adult to have animal themed flannels. 

In the bedroom, wrapped in a towel - a nice towel, despite it not being neatly folded and not matching any of the other towels in the airing cupboard - the clothes that he came in are gone. 

"Harry," he calls. "Where are my clothes?"

Harry materialises, naked, and drying his hair with a towel. "I thought you might want to stay for a bit," he says. "There's supper."

"What kind of supper?"

"Fondant fancies," Harry says. "I thought maybe I could wank as I watched you eat them."

There's a pause. Harry looks a little pink. 

"I didn't get to come earlier."

"Is this what you're asking me for?"

Harry shakes his head. "No," he says. "You'll know when I ask you. This is just me wanting a thing."

"I like sweets," Draco says softly. 

"I know," Harry says. 

"And you like watching me eat them."

"Yes," Harry says. "Is that all right?"

"Yes," Draco says, and when he turns around, there's a box of Fondant Fancies right where the truffles had been earlier, and Harry's arm has slipped around his waist. "It is."

Harry smiles. "Good," he says. "Because when he was fucking me, all I could think was that I wanted to come like this, with you, here."

"Weirdo," Draco says, after a pause, and Harry laughs.


	6. Chapter 6

Draco realises he's lost his scarf around the same time he realises just how cold it is outside, which is around the same time that the sun starts to disappear behind the tumbledown rooftop of Ginny Weasley's new house. He's been at this for about four hours so far, and it's going to need another day. He's tired, and he liked that scarf, and the wards have turned out to be more complex than he envisaged. 

Miss Weasley opens the back door. She's in leggings and a big, hand-knitted jumper, her tufty red hair all spiky today. "Cup of tea?" she asks. She glances up at the sky. "You haven't got much left to do today, have you? It's freezing out here."

"Another few minutes," he says. "I'll be back on Tuesday, though."

She smiles at him. "I know you will," she says. "How do you take your tea?"

"Please don't go to any trouble."

"The kettle's going on anyway," she says. "Come in when you're done. Get warm before you go home."

He nods. He thinks he might have left his scarf at Harry's. He can't think about that now, he has to get the end of this spell _just right_. He'll think about Harry later.

***

Ginny Weasley's house is still in a state of disarray, but Draco suspects that's only partly down to the fact she's only just felt secure enough with the in-progress wards to move in. She seems to live in a state of perpetual, happy chaos, the kitchen table already full of Quidditch magazines and bags and bits and pieces and half written lists. There are pictures all around, Draco Malfoy standing in the middle of an army of Weasleys. He leaves his workbag in the hallway, and goes into the kitchen to see if Ginny needs any help with the tea. 

"All done?" she asks, getting the milk out of the fridge. Ginny, like Harry, has milk that comes from TESCO, and she doesn't decant it into a jug. She just slides the bottle down the counter so he can add it himself, and opens a packet of digestive biscuits. "Let's be fancy and have it in the living room."

Draco may be able to count the number of times he's had tea in a kitchen in his life on one hand. 

The sofa is already covered in a selection of hand knitted blankets and Draco settles hesitantly at one end of the sofa whilst Ginny tugs one of the blankets down so that she can drape it over her lap. 

"How's the work going?" Ginny asks, like she's on perfectly friendly conversational terms with Draco, instead of this being maybe the only time they've ever talked. "Any surprises?"

"None so far," he says. "The house welcomes them."

She cocks an eyebrow. "Does the house sometimes… not welcome them?"

"Sometimes," Draco says. "Magic seeps into the brickwork. Sometimes it doesn't want to spit it out. Sometimes it's full." 

"Cool," she says. There's a pause. It's only a little bit awkward. 

"I like your china," Draco says finally. He doesn't really know what they are, really. They're both drinking from an identical mug, far bigger than anything Draco owns, and they both have a picture of a bottle of something called Gordon's, a drawing of a knee, a ginger otter, and the word _eee!_ in purple ink. 

Ginny grins at that. "Do you, now," she says. "They're a housewarming gift from Harry." She points at her tea. "Gin - knee - weasel - eee!"

"Oh," Draco says. "Of course."

"Of course," Ginny agrees. "Harry's an idiot." She sounds affectionate. 

"Are you still--" he trails off. 

"No," Ginny says. "We're not still doing it."

Draco flushes. "I was going to say _friends_ ," he says. "I understand some couples are able to remain friends, afterwards. That must be nice."

Her expression softens a little. "We're friends," she says. "I hope we always will be. Has it not been like that for you and your…"

"It hasn't really been like that," he says, which he hopes is oblique enough to not highlight his complete inexperience in the relationship department. 

She nods. There's another pause. "Harry said that the two of you had had a conversation."

He works hard not to betray his surprise on his face. He's had years of experience of presenting a mask to the world at large, though, so this shouldn't be any different. He opts for, "Did he?"

"I'm glad," she says. "No, really. I think it might be nice for Harry to be on friendly terms with you."

He hums, and takes a sip of his tea. There's no saucer. He's not used to taking tea anymore when there aren't saucers and a plate to put the biscuits on. 

"I think he needs a friend," she persists, like they're talking about Harry now, and there's nothing Draco can do to stop it. She shoots him a glance. "And maybe you do too."

"Please," he says. He's not sure what he's asking for. "I'm not sure Harry needs anything from me."

She smiles at him. It looks kind of tired around the edges. "He needs something from everybody," she says. "He just doesn't have a clue what, and I could never figure it out. He won't let anyone in, and he never has. Not about the stuff inside his head. And he never takes anything he needs. He spends all this time trying to, just, I don't know. Do things for you. Give you his attention. Sometimes it's impossible to forget he grew up with nobody. I just felt guilty because for me it was always the wrong thing. He couldn't get me right."

He's embarrassed, both for her social faux pas, and for Harry and her, together all that time. Harry keeps getting Draco right, like he's got a secret path into Draco's brain and he can go in and out whenever he wants and scoop up all the private, secret, desperate bits. And maybe he'd found it by accident, but he'd found it, and Draco hates the idea of Ginny's guilt and not wanting what Harry needed so desperately to give. 

"It was nice to talk to him," he says finally. "To not be… what we were. Before." That part at least is true. 

"I'm sorry," she says. "I said too much. I didn't mean to. Harry's very important to my family. He's very important to me."

"I know," he says. He's drunk his tea too quickly, and mostly on purpose. "I've taken up too much of your time. I'll leave you to your evening."

"Good bye," she says, following him to the door. "And I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said--"

"Don't think of it. Until Tuesday, Miss Weasley."

Her smile might be sad, but he's gone before he can be sure. 

***

His scarf is on the floor in the hall at home, fallen off the hook in the hall cupboard. He'd never even taken it with him. He holds it in his hand for a minute before folding it up and putting it back into the cupboard. 

Then he walks - via the writing desk in his father's old office - through his flat to the back terrace, where the balcony houses his virtually empty owlery. The side terrace is where they used to entertain guests, back in the day. They're both as empty as each other nowadays, except for the periodic residence of Draco's owl, Estelle, who is snooty and dismissive and spends most of her time away from her perch. 

She greets him with a hoot and bites his fingers. He deserves that. His mother may have had her own owls, but Estelle always had wanted to be leader of the pack. Except she was a pack of one, now, and maybe she was as lonely as Draco. He hands her his note. 

"Swift as they go, now," he says, and she hoots in disdain at him, but then she's gone, sweeping up into the early evening sky. 

The message returns half an hour later, in the same envelope but with Draco's name scratched on the front in messy handwriting. Inside, it says, _Draco, I don't think you left your scarf here, but please do come and have a root around and see if you can find it. Safe journey._

Then, afterwards, in a slightly different coloured ink, like it had been rushed on afterwards, _Stay and have dinner with me too, if you'd like. I'd like company. See you soon. H._

That squiggle afterwards could be anything. 

Draco goes to his bedroom to change. 

***

Harry answers his door in jeans and a hoodie. He looks soft and a little tired, and he smiles at Draco as he steps back to let Draco in. It looks vaguely apologetic.

"I can't see your scarf," Harry says. "I'm sorry."

"Maybe it's in your bedroom," Draco says. He unbuttons his coat, and slips it off and over his arm. "Is there somewhere I can hang my coat?"

Harry rolls his eyes. "What do you think?"

"I think," Draco says carefully, "like you need someone to come and take charge of your clothes."

Harry looks at him. "You saw them. I don't exactly look after them. Not like you do."

"Would you like that? If I did that for you?"

Harry's chin goes up. He's a little pink, like last Saturday when he'd asked Draco if he could wank as Draco ate his way through a packet of Fondant Fancies. 

"Harry."

"Yes," Harry says. "If I can watch."

"Please," Draco says, and this time he's the one that leads Harry upstairs. 

Draco had dressed for the occasion, in a shirt and waistcoat and trousers. His shoes shine. He's done his hair. Harry settles himself on the bed, and Draco bends over to get Harry's book from the floor, pages crumpled to keep his place. 

"What's this for?"

"In case you get bored of watching me work," Draco says.

"You're looking after me," Harry says. There's a peculiar tone to it, but Draco doesn't let himself react. He puts the book down on the bed, close to Harry's hand, and goes to explore Harry's particularly terrible wardrobe and drawers. 

It's a disaster. There are unmatched socks and clothes with holes and missing buttons and snags. Before long he's got his sleeves rolled up and there's a pile of clothes that need mending on the floor by the bed. He never normally allows clothes on the floor, but he's been quick to decide that he's washing everything, then pressing it all. There's a pile of clothes that are too far gone to be saved - mostly threadbare boxer shorts, and there's a soft sound of disagreement from behind him, but Draco raises an eyebrow. 

"You're letting me look after this," Draco says. "So let me do my job."

"Your job," Harry says, sounding a little strangled. 

Draco turns around then. "Serving you," he says. "Sir."

Harry's hard. His dick is thickly outlined in his trousers. "Draco--"

"Sir," Draco says, because Harry's flushed red. "Shall I continue?"

"Yes," Harry says. "No--"

"What?"

Harry sinks back into the pillows. "Nothing," he says. "Carry on."

Draco looks at him for a moment before nodding. "Whatever you need."

He finds his way to Harry's laundry room and sets the first load going. He'd brought his own washing powders, shrunk down into his pocket, and he disposes of Harry's without that much consideration. Then, whilst that's washing, he gets his mending kit out and goes back to the bedroom to set about mending Harry's clothes. 

Harry's masturbating when he gets back, jeans swapped for a loose pair of cotton sportswear trousers, waistband pushed down low. 

"Shall I wash those?" Draco asks, choosing to ignore Harry's hand on his dick in favour of picking up his discarded jeans.

"If you'd like," Harry says. 

Draco doesn't move. "If _you'd_ like, Sir."

Harry looks up at him, chewing on his lip, hand on his dick. "I'd like," he says, and Draco nods. 

The jeans go on a smaller, separate washing pile with Harry's other jeans. Then Draco settles himself in Harry's newly cleared red armchair, and picks up the first piece of mending - a shirt with a rip in the sleeve. It's a mixture of Draco's delicate skill with a needle and exquisite charms knowledge that leaves the tear almost invisible afterwards. He tidies up a fray on the cuff too. 

Harry's still masturbating. Draco can hear him. He doesn't look up. 

"Draco," Harry says after a while, when his breath's started to catch and Draco's moved on to the dropped-down hem on a pair of Harry's trousers. "Malfoy."

"Yes, sir?" Draco asks. Valeting isn't as demeaning as he'd thought it might be, not that he'd particularly been thinking about humiliation as he'd dressed for his evening. He'd been thinking about Harry. 

"You won't be able to finish this this evening."

Draco glances at the piles of clothes, all needing washing and looking after. After the clothes will need to come the sheets and the towels. And making sure the wardrobes and drawers and in the right state to welcome clothes back in. He doesn't let himself think about shopping for gaps in Harry's clothes collection. "No, sir."

"You'll have to return tomorrow."

"I expect so," Draco says. 

"Let me suck you," Harry says. 

Draco almost drops his needle. 

"Please," Harry begs.

Draco swallows. "All right."

Harry practically rolls off the bed and onto his knees. Draco's precisely dressed and he has to move the mending out of the way so he can stand up and Harry can get to his trousers, pushing them down to Draco's ankles. 

He stays standing as Harry's on his knees, and then Harry's taking Draco's cock in his hand and leaning in, and Draco's cock is in Harry's mouth and, _and_ , oh, fuck, this is what this feels like. 

It's Draco's first time getting sucked off and Harry doesn't even know. 

Heat sweeps through his body, heat and desperate, intense joy. Harry's mouth is on Draco's dick. 

He shames himself for coming after barely a minute, but it's his first blow job and Harry Potter is on his knees for him, so Draco allows himself the premature orgasm. He can't imagine he'll be receiving many blow jobs in the future; his dick's tiny and mostly useless. 

But Harry sits back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and wraps his fist around his own cock again. 

"No," Draco says, getting down onto his knees. "That's my job. Making you come."

Harry's eyes are wide. His lips are wet from Draco's dick, from his come. For a moment, an unforgivable moment, Draco considers kissing him. He drops his gaze to Harry's cock instead, curving his hand around Harry's erection. 

"I make you come," he says. "That's what I do."

Harry tilts forward and rests his forehead against Draco's shoulder. "My piglet," he says. 

"That's right, sir," Draco says, because he's still dressed as a valet. He plays with Harry's cock, getting it slick. "And tonight you're letting me look after you, aren't you?"

Harry nods into Draco's shoulder. He's panting into Draco's neck, hot and damp. He's had his mouth on Draco's dick. 

"That's right," Draco says, leaning into Harry for just a second. "My good boy."

Harry's immediate, quiet orgasm comes as somewhat of a surprise. 

"Don't say anything," Harry says, without moving his face from the curve of Draco's neck. 

"All right," Draco says, and they stay there for on the floor, quiet, and don't say anything else.


	7. Chapter 7

Draco chooses not to think about what his father might have said if he'd ever, ever found out about Draco taking on the role of a valet, even if it's part of this weird, fucked up thing that he and Harry are doing. 

_The Malfoys don't serve, the Malfoys are served._

Draco is the last of his line, and he'll end it on his knees if it kills him. 

Harry's bedroom looks - and smells - different after 24 hours. Draco has opened the windows and aired the room, just like the house elves used to do back in the manor, and he's used every cleaning spell he has at his disposal to make the room as spotless as he can manage. Everything's gone from the room, books and bits and pieces and clothes and memories. The painting of the stag and the dog and the wolf is down from the wall. 

Draco's ordered a new frame, but he hasn't told Harry and he can't imagine a situation where he can give it to him. The order's still been sent, though, and when he stands in the entrance to the room early on Saturday afternoon, shirt sleeves rolled up, the room looks different. It looks cleaner and fresher, empty of all Harry's belongings bar the furniture. He's changed the layout, changed where the bed is and the wardrobes so that the light is better. 

"I didn't expect this," Harry says, coming up behind him. "I thought you were going to hang my clothes up."

"I am," Draco says. He adjusts his waistcoat. 

"Funny way of hanging my clothes up, barricading me from my own bedroom and moving my furniture."

"You can come back soon," Draco says. He's offering Harry a full valet service. That's what he's giving Harry as part of their… arrangement. The cleaning's extra, just something else, something Harry deserves outside of what they do. He can't put a proper title on it, but he rather suspects it's got a lot to do with Ginny Weasley telling him that Harry won't let anyone do anything for him. He's letting Draco. He's letting Draco do this for him, and a little thrill keeps pulsing through him every time he remembers. 

"After lunch," Harry says. 

Draco glances at him. "Lunch?"

"To make up for the dinner we didn't have last night," Harry says. The evening had rather stumbled to a half after Harry's awkward orgasm, and Draco had made his excuses to go home and wrap his hand around his stupid little cock and remember Harry's mouth on him.

Draco swallows. "I could serve you your lunch," he says. "Like a proper member of your house staff."

Harry looks at him. "Would you prefer that?"

"Yes," Draco says. He flushes. "I could keep your cock warm whilst you eat, if you'd like that."

"What about your lunch?"

"Servants eat after their masters," Draco says. His face is hot. "And never at the same table."

Harry's gaze doesn't waver. "There isn't another table." 

Draco can't imagine that there isn't somewhere else in this under-loved house where he could eat his lunch. "There's the floor," he says, and doesn't look away. 

"Would you like that?" Harry ask. 

"Yes," Draco says, because he would. He'd like to serve Harry, and be used whilst Harry eats, and then eat where he deserves to. 

"And then afterwards, you'll let me back in my bedroom?"

Draco inclines his head. 

"All right," Harry says. "Finish up here and come down to the kitchen when you're done."

***

It's barely five minutes before he's finished and going downstairs to the kitchen, but Harry's waiting for him, seated at the head of the table. 

"You took your time," Harry says. 

"I'm sorry," Draco says. His dick's already hard, just at the thought of what's to come. 

"I've been waiting for my lunch."

"I'm sorry, Sir," Draco says again. The food is waiting on the counter. There's a bowl of salad, and sliced chicken, and bread and butter. It mostly seems to have come out of packaging that says TESCO, and he wonders what this mythical TESCO place is like. The Malfoys weren't the kind of family to do the food shopping. Much of the world appears to have carried on outside of their walls, and hadn't ever required Draco's participation in order to continue. 

"Take your clothes off," Harry says. "I don't want to see dirt on your uniform."

 _Uniform_ , gods. "Of course, sir." He strips where he stands, folding his clothes carefully onto one of the kitchen chairs, until he's naked. "Would you care for a drink?"

"Water," Harry says. There's a jug on the side, and Draco opens the cupboards until he finds the glasses and the plates. He pours Harry a glass and takes it over to the table. Harry doesn't say thank you, barely acknowledging his existence. There's a magazine on the table, another Muggle one. Harry never seems to have a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ , it's always these strange magazines where the pictures don't move and the covers scream about ladies who've put on weight. Draco thinks they look nice and soft, no sharp edges. Draco is so tired of sharp edges. 

He turns back to the counter and prepares a plate for Harry to eat. He arranges it neatly and then brings it over to the table with some cutlery, laying it out so that all the angles are straight. 

Harry ignores him, flicking through the magazine. "My cock needs warming," he says, without looking up. "Get down and do it."

Draco cock juts out, leaking pre-come. He crawls under the table to find that Harry's trousers have been pulled down, and his cock's on show. Draco crawls inbetween Harry's legs. 

"No hands and no sucking," Harry says sharply. "Just hold me in your mouth."

Draco obediently doesn't touch. He inches forward until he can open his mouth and slide it around Harry's cock. His lips close around his length. Harry's heavy against his tongue and Draco has to fight the urge to suck. Saliva pools in his mouth. 

"Just a warm hole, aren't you?" Harry says. "That's all you're good for."

Heat settles in Draco's belly. He can't respond, but there's no need. He's where he needs to be, drooling around Harry's cock, servicing Harry however he needs. Spit runs down his chin. Above him, Harry hasn't even started eating. All Draco can hear is the rustle of pages. 

His jaw aches a little and he shifts a little, letting his mouth fall open. He hears the tap of cutlery against the plate. His cock throbs. He wants so badly to rub himself off, to come because he's right where he should be, on his knees, forgotten, servicing someone who's busy doing something else. Useless, out of sight, out of mind, with spit running down his chin. It's just where he wants to be. 

Draco closes his eyes, and lets himself just _be_. 

It's a while later when Harry slips a hand into Draco's hair. "Stay," he says, fingers in his hair. "Just stay."

Draco hums a little, and stays. 

"Come on," Harry says later. He's no idea how much time has passed. Minutes, maybe. "Lunch time, Piglet."

He sits back, Harry's cock sliding out of his mouth. Harry's still so hard, and Draco whines. That's his job, making Harry come. He's not doing his job if Harry doesn't. He's not serving properly. 

Harry's hand is still in his hair. "Stop whining," he says. "You can suck me later. Greedy piglet."

Draco _is_ greedy. He wants cock so much. He's such a filthy boy. He crawls out from under the table. His cock's dripped pre-come onto the tile. He should clean that up. Maybe Harry will make him do it with his tongue. His cock jumps. 

Harry looks at where Draco's looking, then rolls his eyes. "Such a fucking animal," he says. He throws a cloth in Draco's general direction. "Clean that up." Harry's cock is still hanging out of his trousers and he doesn't make any move to put it away. He starts to make a plate up for Draco and Draco wants to complain, say that _he_ should be doing that, but it just… doesn't feel like the kind of situation where Draco should speak. They haven't talked about that - haven't talked about _anything_ , not really, not that Draco's had any intention of starting to articulate any of the stuff inside his head, and he's fairly sure Harry hasn't either - and now's not the time to start. He cleans up the little wet spots under the table, focusing on making the tile sparkle, until Harry clears his throat. 

Turning around on his knees, there's a plate on the floor. His cock jerks. 

"Cutlery?" Harry asks, holding out a knife and fork, "or do you want to eat like an animal?"

Oh, _fuck_. He could come right here. He stares at the plate. It's just pieces of chicken and salad. The bread's been buttered and cut into little soldiers. The chicken's already in small, bite-size pieces. There's no need for cutlery, and really, Draco doesn't deserve it. 

"Last chance," Harry says, holding out the knife and fork. Draco meets his gaze, but doesn't say anything. Harry shrugs a shoulder. "Suit yourself," he says, and puts them back down on the counter. He steps over Draco's plate to sit back down at the table. His cock's still out. "Eat," he says finally, waving a hand, and Draco makes a strange, cut-off noise in his throat. 

He crawls forward, heart pounding. He's never done anything like this, never been down on his knees for anything other than sucking cock or being a rag for someone else's come. This, though, being on his knees because that's the level he should be at, this feels different, and good, and right. 

"Get on with it," Harry says lazily. "You can suck me off for dessert if you get a move on."

Draco, red-faced and ashamed, ducks his head over the plate, and starts to eat. The chicken's easy to nip at with his teeth, and so are the bits of bread, although he gets butter on his nose and his cheek. The salad's cut a bit too small to eat with ease, so he chases bits of it around the plate, his face getting messier. 

"Like a piglet at a trough," Harry says, and is that… is that disgust? Draco's cock leaks, his embarrassment and his shame showing itself across his red, flushed skin. "Come on, eat it all up. Greedy fucking piglet."

Draco chews it down, bits of chicken and lettuce and bread. The cucumber sticks to the plate and he can't get his teeth around it. He whines in frustration. 

"Hurry up," Harry says, and then there's only one bit of chicken left, and bread, and he's still chewing the bread as he sits back on his heels.

He can only imagine what he looks like. Spit all down his face from holding Harry's cock in his mouth, bits of food on his cheeks and his nose and his chin. Cock fucking leaking. Skin flushed from the humiliation. His hair must be going everywhere after having Harry's hand in it, fucking it up. 

"Well," Harry says, after a moment. "Would you look at you."

Draco's skin burns. He keeps his gaze fixed on Harry, who's sitting back in his chair, lazy, one leg stretched out, his cock hard. 

"You really are a filthy animal, aren't you?" Harry continues. "I gave you a plate but I don't even think you deserve one. You should have a food bowl like an animal. A trough like a piglet. Maybe I'll get you one. If I can be bothered."

Draco whines again. His cock's pulsing. A food bowl. Like an animal. He's never-- fuck, he wants one. He wants one. If Harry doesn't get him one, he could get one of his own, use it at home sometimes. It wouldn't be the same as Harry telling him to use it, but he could pretend. Could eat from it before going out to find his own back room. When this thing with Harry's done, he could do that, maybe. 

"Look how hard you are," Harry says, with a smirk. "Hard because I made you eat from the floor. Do you think I should let you come?"

Draco looks at him, wide-eyed. He doesn't want to talk. He's not even sure if he could, right this second. 

Harry seems to get it. "If you want to come," he says, "come and rut against my leg, Piglet. Rub yourself off like an animal."

Draco's brain feels like it's disappearing into starlight. He makes some kind of weird, grunting noise in the back of his throat and plasters himself to Harry's leg, rutting against his calf. His cock rubs against the soft cotton of Harry's trousers. 

"Don't keep it inside," Harry says. "Make all the noise you want, Piglet. I already know how filthy you are."

Draco grunts, hips rolling forward, rocking against Harry's leg, rutting like an animal. Rutting like a piglet. Harry slides his hand into Draco's hair, pulling him closer, and Draco drops, resting his cheek against Harry's thigh as he rubs his stupid, useless little cock off against Harry's leg. He's going to come like this, grunting into Harry's crotch, come stains all over Harry's trousers. Humiliation burns across his skin, shame taking root in his chest. 

"What a useless little cock," Harry says, fingers catching in Draco's hair. "So fucking worthless. Just like you." 

And Draco, Draco fucking comes. 

He comes all over Harry's trousers, spurt after humiliating spurt. 

Draco closes his eyes and hides his face in Harry's leg. 

Harry keeps his hand in Draco's hair, and doesn't let go.


	8. Chapter 8

It's a while later when Harry speaks. Draco is still resting his cheek against Harry's thigh, sitting sprawled across Harry's kitchen floor with his stupid, useless little cock out. He'd come all over Harry's trouser leg, like a common animal. Draco keeps his eyes closed as if that will make the humiliation easier to deal with. He'd wanted this, begged for it practically, but that didn't make it any easier to manage after the fact. 

"Open your mouth," Harry says, and Draco can feel the touch of Harry's thumb against his lip. He does as he's told, mouth falling open, but still doesn't open his eyes. 

Harry runs his finger over Draco's bottom lip. 

"I bought something for you, Draco. Something nice."

Draco hums. He keeps his eyes closed. His limbs feel oddly heavy - not lethargic, not that, but like there's no impetus to move. There's just him, here, on his knees by Harry's side, and that's all there is. He hopes he can have it for a few minutes more. 

"Something sweet, Piglet. Would you like that?" Maybe Harry understands that he's not quite ready to talk yet, because he just strokes his hand through Draco's hair. "Some chocolates, Draco. A whole box, just for you."

Draco nuzzles at Harry's trousers.

"You can have some now if you'd like," Harry goes on, still stroking Draco's hair. "I'll feed them to you."

Draco doesn't know how to say _yes_ without saying yes out loud. Harry is back to touching his lip with his fingertip, and Draco licks at him, a hesitant _please_. 

There's a pause, then, "Good piglet." It makes him feel warm inside and he hasn't got the energy to interrogate why. But when a chocolate brushes against his lips, he opens his mouth, and lets Harry feed him. 

It's a white chocolate casing with some kind of strawberry mousse within, topped with something that adds a little crunch. It's sweet and rich and melts against his tongue. He licks at Harry's fingers as he eats it, a soft, gentle whine at the back of his throat once it's finished and Harry's fingers are gone. 

"Don't worry, Piglet," Harry says, and his fingers are back again, and so is a second chocolate. "There are as many chocolates as you want to eat. No one's going to tell you no. They're all for you. You have permission to eat as many as you would like."

He whines at that too, at this blanket permission for something Draco's never, ever had, and never allowed himself to wish for. 

"This one's a dark hazelnut praline," Harry tells him, as the chocolate melts against Draco's lips. "That's right, Malfoy, all for you."

It's followed by an artisan florentine made with honey, buttered caramel, and roasted almonds with a praline centre, and then a chocolate coated amaretto ganache surrounding a kirsch-soaked cherry. Harry tells him everything about each chocolate he feeds Draco, the salted caramels, the espresso martini truffles, and the orange chocolate wafers. Harry's fingers are licked messy with chocolate, and so are Draco's lips. He's never had this, never had anyone ever indulge him like this. He doesn't know what to say or how to feel or what to do. 

"Another?" Harry asks, and Draco opens his eyes, blinking against the light. 

"No," Draco says, and his voice is rough. "Not just now."

Harry's watching him. He's hard as anything, cock curved up towards his belly, a thin dribble of slick curving down over the crown, first one way, then another. 

"Draco," Harry says, and it sounds a little awkward, like he's gearing up to ask if Draco's all right. There's a large box of chocolates on the table, although where Harry had been hiding them when Draco had served him lunch, Draco had no idea. 

"You said I could suck you," Draco says instead. "You said I could make you come."

"I did," Harry agrees, and Draco gets up onto his knees and takes Harry's cock into his mouth, sliding his lips down over the length of him. 

He craves it, fucking loves it, and this time Harry's fingers are tangling in Draco's hair and holding him in close, making him take it. He sucks Harry down and almost gags on his length, before sliding back and focusing his attention on the crown, hand wrapping around the base so that he can wank him at the same time. Harry won't be waiting long to come. He's been waiting long enough, and Draco's been remiss, eating his sweets instead of doing what he's supposed to be doing, focusing on Harry and serving him. Maybe this can be apology, making use of Draco's mouth. Making use of his piglet. 

"Draco," Harry groans, and it's his name, _it's his name_ , and it shouldn't mean anything, but Draco's just a hole. Harry's just using him, Harry's got to have something to come in or come on, Draco's just a _thing_ \--

"Draco," Harry says again, and then there's warmth flooding Draco's mouth, and he's trying to swallow it all but he doesn't know if he can. Harry's hands stay in his hair though, keep him where he is with his mouth around Harry's cock, and he knows some of Harry's come leaks down his chin. He warms Harry's cock for him, even after his orgasm, even as Draco's heart's pounding and Harry's quivering in his mouth and something's fucking changed and Draco doesn't know what the fuck to do. 

He presses his tongue to the base of Harry's cock, and feels him tremble. 

"Draco," Harry says, hands in Draco's hair. "Fuck."

Draco pulls off then, sitting back on his heels. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. He's a fucking mess, and he knows it. Chocolate and spit and come and food. His skin flushes with shame, but he doesn't try and hide or turn his face away. 

Harry's chest is still heaving, and he's staring at Draco, wide-eyed. 

"Sir," Draco says, because it's the only thing that he can say, the only thing he's got to break the weird fucking tension in the room. He glances at the floor. There's bits of his lunch that have fallen off the plate and onto the floor. "I made a mess. I'll clean up."

"Yes," Harry says. "You should clean up." There's another pause. "I should clean up."

"Not in here," Draco says sharply. 

Harry looks at him. "Because you're looking after me." It sounds a little peculiar. 

"Today I am," Draco says. 

Harry just nods. "You should, uh… you can use the bathroom upstairs. The same one you used before. I'll use the other one. Take as long as you need. Use whatever you want." He stands up. It's the first time Draco's really seen him not in control, and he doesn't quite understand why. "I won't go in my bedroom. You can tell me when I can go back in there. If you're ready to resume that. I'll be in the living room. Take as long as you need, Draco."

"Sir," Draco says again. 

Harry looks at him. "Eat as many of the chocolates as you'd like, Draco. They're yours. You should have as many sweets as you want."

_Sometimes it's a kindness_ , Draco thinks, and he nods. 

Harry nods back. It seems awkward. "Take as long as you need," he says again. "I'll be waiting."

After Harry leaves the room, it takes Draco a lot longer than it should to stand up and get started. 

***

It's an hour before Draco comes to find Harry to tell him he can come back upstairs. The kitchen is clean from lunchtime, and Draco has made use of Harry's bathroom and washed away all the dirt and spit and come from earlier. His hair is washed and neat again, spelled tidy. He's got rid of the worst of the creases in his clothes, short-term spells to take away some of the marks and lines from where he'd worn them that morning. His shoes are laced and he's buffed them up so that they shine again. He stands by the mirror upstairs and watches himself looking back at him, at the uniformed valet he's become. 

Then he goes downstairs and knocks on the open sitting room door. 

Harry's sitting on one of the sofa's, knee drawn up to his chest. He's changed too, into another hoodie and jeans, and his hair's a mess. He's reading another Muggle magazine. 

"Draco," Harry says. "Come in." He flicks the magazine shut. "Is the kitchen cleaned?"

"It is," he says. 

"And did you eat more of the chocolates?"

Draco flushes. "I did," he says. "Sir."

"Good," Harry says. "They're all for you."

"You can come upstairs now," Draco says. "If you'd like."

"I'd like," Harry says, and then Draco leads him upstairs to his bedroom. The wardrobes are empty, but he's hung the picture up on the wall - without its new frame, which is still on its way to Draco's - and he's made the bed. It's tidy and neat and organised, a serviced space for Harry to exist within. 

Harry stops in the doorway. He turns to look at Draco. 

"I didn't know you'd be doing this," he says finally. 

"If you don't like the layout, we can move it back," Draco says, although his heart rate is a little faster than it should be right now, and he doesn't quite understand why. 

"I like it," Harry says. "But I thought you were just going to tidy up my clothes."

"I am," Draco says. "A full valet service, Sir." His skin's flushed.

Harry just nods, and turns his attention back to the room, waving a hand towards the empty wardrobes. "I thought there'd be more clothes."

"Some of your clothes require alterations. I can't make them without knowing your measurements."

"Indeed," Harry says, with all the cautious emphasis of someone who's never been measured for anything in his life. Except--

"I met you at Madam Malkin's," Draco says, which isn't what he meant to say. "That first time. Before Hogwarts. I was so young."

"We both were," Harry says. His hands are in his pockets. "You were one of the first people I ever met, you know."

"You were eleven," Draco says, appalled. 

"No, I mean--" Harry stops. "Hagrid came to get me. On my birthday. It was the first time anyone had ever told me about magic. He took me to Diagon Alley to get my school things, and sent me into Madam Malkin's, and there you were. Talking about racing brooms."

"I was a superior little snot," Draco says. There's a pause. "And I wanted so desperately to be your friend. Not then, when I didn't know who you were. But as soon as I did."

"You should have tried to be my friend that first time you met me. Before you knew who I was."

"I know," Draco says. "I used to think about that a lot."

"I never used to think of it at all," Harry says, and it shouldn't hurt, but it does. He turns to look at Draco. "I've never been as obsessed with anyone in my whole life as I was with you, you know. Well," he tilts his head, a weird sort of sideways nod. "Except for Voldemort."

"A fair exception," Draco says. "My father used to tell me off in the holidays because all I'd do was talk about you."

Harry's smile is sort of sadly lopsided. "It was a long time ago."

"It was," Draco says. "I think my father wished I'd been your friend. He liked powerful people."

"Yes," Harry says. "He did." He waits a beat before speaking again. "I'm sorry for your loss, Draco."

"Yes, well," Draco says. "So am I. For the most part. But not many people tell me that, so thank you."

Harry lets out a breath and squares his shoulders. "So," he says. "What does a valet do when his master's wardrobe's empty?"

"Fills it," Draco says, and snaps his fingers. A stool appears in the middle of the floor, somewhere for Harry to stand whilst Draco measures him for his clothes. "Your wardrobe is sadly lacking in some areas."

"I hate shopping," Harry says. 

"That's because you don't know what you're looking for, or how to purchase things that actually fit you. Or get them altered."

"Indeed," Harry says, and he steps up onto the stool. "Maybe you'll have to come with me next time."

Draco doesn't react at all. "Maybe, Sir," he says finally, and with a flick of his wand his measuring tape unfurls and starts to do its work. 

"Is it just my clothes we'll be adjusting?" Harry asks, as the measuring tape curls around his thigh, then his hips, and his waist, and the hovering quill takes down all the measurements in a ledger book. 

"Is there something wrong with my clothes?" Draco asks. 

"I don't know," Harry says. "If this is a uniform, it's not very clear at showing who you serve."

Draco's hand quivers, just for a moment. "What do you suggest?"

"Property of the House of Potter," Harry says. "For a start."

"On which piece?"

"All of them," Harry says, and Draco lifts his gaze to meet Harry's. Harry cups Draco's face in his hand. "Everything you're wearing today. Property of the House of Potter."

"I'll arrange it," Draco says. "Sir."

"Good," Harry says. "Now get on with it, I haven't got all day."

"Very good, Sir," Draco says, and carries on.


	9. Chapter 9

Harry's late. 

4.30, they'd said, and Draco's been naked since 4.15. It's 5pm. There's pushing the boundaries, and then there's just plain rude. 

Draco gets up off the floor, wraps himself in his dark green robe, and gets the charmed coin out of the little bowl on his bedside table. It's not very big and they don't have much space for words - something Draco really needs to work on, given his charms skills - so he settles for _you okay?_

Harry's reply comes after a minute. _not tonight_. 

_all right_ , Draco sends back. _but you ok?_

He gets back into his clothes, one eye on the coin the whole time, and he's just putting his socks back on when the message comes back: _no_. 

He stares at it for a long time before he reaches for his coat. 

***

Draco stands awkwardly outside Harry's front door, debating whether or not to ring the doorbell. In the end, the decision's made for him, because Harry opens the door to him. 

"You were breathing very loudly," Harry says, and when Draco raises an eyebrow, Harry rolls his eyes. "Okay, you set off my intruder wards."

"Better," Draco says. There's a pause. "I just wanted to check you were all right."

Harry looks tired, and like he hasn't bothered to get changed. He's in his robes - crumpled, Draco notes, with a Valet's efficiency, because there's still a lot to do on Harry's wardrobe, and Draco has it listed in his head - and underneath that a shirt and tie. "I'm not having sex with you tonight."

"I wasn't asking you to," Draco says. "I was checking you were all right. I'll go away again afterwards."

Harry opens his door wider. "Come in," he says finally. "It's cold out here."

"I don't have to. You don't want me tonight."

"I don't want _sex_ tonight," Harry says. "Company might be all right."

Draco follows him inside and chooses not to focus on the fact this is the only conversation they might ever have had that doesn't concern them either killing each other or sex. "Bad day at work?"

"Something like that," Harry says. "I was contemplating making some tea."

"It isn't a terrible plan," Draco says. 

Harry looks momentarily amused. "Indeed," he says. "Would you like a cup?"

"Yes," Draco says, and only partly because he'd spent 45 minutes naked and on his knees before he'd realised Harry wasn't coming, and he was still feeling the cold from where he'd failed to cast a warming charm on the tiles. "And a biscuit, if you've got any."

"Very demanding of you," Harry says, but he's leading the way to the kitchen anyway. 

Draco chooses not to pay any mind to the last time they were in here, when he'd eaten off the floor and Harry had fed him expensive chocolates. He leans on the counter instead, and watches as Harry fills the kettle and sets it to heat. He looks tired. 

Harry leans forward and rests his elbows on the countertop. "Do you know," he says finally, "that I'd never had a proper present in my life before I went to Hogwarts?"

Draco makes a face. He's sure he looks confused. "What," he says. "Never?"

"No," Harry says. "I woke up on Christmas morning at Hogwarts, my first year, and Ron's mum had knitted me a jumper. Hagrid made me a flute. And it was the first time in my life anyone had, um, I don't know. Cared enough to give me anything."

"That can't be true, though," Draco says. "You're Harry Potter." He'd known, objectively, that Harry had grown up with Muggles, and - rumour had it - Muggles that hadn't particularly cared that much about The Boy Who Lived, but there was a material difference between not caring that much, and not caring at all. Ginny had said that he'd grown up with nobody. At the time, he'd thought it might have been an exaggeration. 

Harry smiles at him. It looks tired at the edges. "Yes," he says. "I'm Harry Potter."

Draco studies him for a moment. "What do you need?"

"From you?"

"From anyone," Draco says. "Right now."

"God knows," Harry says. "Tea, maybe."

"A start," Draco says. "And beyond that?"

"No idea," Harry says. Draco isn't entirely sure it's true. 

"Food?" he suggests. "Comfort? Warmth? A game of cards? To be left alone?"

Harry just smiles. "To get out of these clothes, maybe. And before you suggest it, into some other ones. And then maybe food."

Draco nods. "I'll make tea if you'd like, whilst you get changed. And then I can get out of your hair."

Harry looks at him. "Have you ever been to a hamburger restaurant?"

Draco tilts his chin up. "No," he says. "Martin the mad Muggle went to one once."

"We could go to one," Harry says. "Tonight. If you want."

"If you want," Draco says, and Harry looks at him for the longest moment before he nods. 

"Okay," he says. "I'll get changed and you make the tea."

"All right," Draco says, and chooses not to think about what the hell they're doing. 

***

The hamburger restaurant is loud, busy, bustling and - Draco doesn't like to admit it - daunting. In the end, Harry deposits him at a plastic table upstairs and tells him to stay put whilst he gets them their food, and Draco is left staring in some horror at the fact there is ketchup and spilled salt on their table and no one to clean it up. 

Harry comes back with a plastic tray with little cardboard boxes and portions of chips and drinks in disposable cups on. 

"Your horror is worth the expense alone," Harry says, sliding the tray down the table and sitting down. He starts dividing the portions out so they have a small box each, a carton of chips, and a drink. The third box is 'chicken nuggets', and Harry invites him to 'dig in'. 

Draco does not eat with his fingers, and especially not hot food, and there is no plate or cutlery. Eventually his total ineptitude must register with Harry, because Harry opens his little cardboard box to reveal a burger, then he tips the chips into the lid. 

"Plate," Harry says, and then he peels the lid of a carton of ketchup. He wraps his hand around Draco's, and makes him pick up a chip, then dip it in the tomato ketchup ."Now, eat."

Draco does. The chips are salty and hot and nice. He doesn't like the greasy fingers though, and the burger is somewhat overwhelming. He watches Harry eat his, and then copies what he does, picking it up and eating it. 

"We'll make a Martin Miggs, the mad Muggle of you yet," Harry says, taking a slurp of what turns out to be strawberry milkshake.

"Will we?" Draco asks doubtfully. 

"Maybe," Harry says. "Have a nugget."

"A nugget of what, exactly?"

"Chicken," Harry says. 

"What part of the chicken is a nugget?"

"The cheap kind," Harry says. "Eat up."

Draco takes a cautious bite and doesn't actively hate it, although he would rather prefer a knife and fork. "Did you eat in places like this when you lived with the Muggles?" 

"No," Harry says. "They left me with a squib called Mrs Figg if they were taking Dudley out for a treat. I didn't know she was a squib until later. She just had a lot of cats and smelled like cabbage."

"Unfortunate thing to smell of," Draco says. "Was it as bad as you're making it sound? Living with them?"

Harry pokes a chip into his ketchup. "It was all right," he says. "I didn't know any different. I only knew Dudley and his friends. I don't think I knew I was an abused kid until I was a lot older."

Draco looks at him. 

"A file landed on my desk today. This kid who they wanted us to investigate for magical potential. Except they got to his primary school and he was a catalogue of signs of neglect."

"Oh," Draco says. "Will he be going to Hogwarts?"

Harry shakes his head. "Turns out he just really likes dragons and magic stories. Not an ounce of magic in him."

"Harry."

"They've done everything they should do, in cases like this, liaising with the authorities and everything. They'll look after him."

"I'm sorry," Draco says. 

"That list, though," Harry says. He eats another chip. "It just, um. It made me think."

"Think about what?"

"Things," Harry says. "Treats. Hamburger bars and birthday parties. People being kind. Friends."

"Harry."

"I like it when you touch me," Harry says. 

Draco doesn't know what else to do, so he covers Harry's hand with his own. 

"Can we be friends, do you think?" Harry asks. "You and me?"

"I don't know whether I'm the right kind of person for you to be friends with."

Harry looks at him. "Why?"

"What would your other friends say?"

"I think they'd like it if I had more friends. I think they'd like it if I let more people in."

"I don't think they mean me."

Harry turns his hand over so that their fingers are laced together. Draco hasn't held hands with anyone in many, many years. The only person who ever really touched him was his mother, a careful touch of her fingertips to her wrist, or a graceful touch of her mouth to his cheek at the end of an evening. And now Harry. 

"Well," Harry says quietly. " _I_ mean you."

Draco flushes. 

"I know you want me to treat you like you're not there, or like you're nothing," Harry says quickly, Their corner of the hamburger restaurant is quiet for a minute. "But that's like-- that's when we're having sex. You don't think like that in real life, do you?"

"I've been reminded of my worth my entire life," Draco says. "And I've reminded you enough times."

"I'm not entirely certain that's an answer."

"I'm entirely certain that's all you're getting from me tonight."

Harry makes a face. He disentangles his hand from Draco's and goes back to eating his burger. "Eat up, then," he says. "There's a little cafe at the other end of the high street that stays open late and does heavenly cake."

"Heavenly?"

"Yes," Harry says. "Heavenly."

"What kind of cake?"

"Black Forest," Harry says. "Chocolate. Whatever you like. We can get a selection and go back to mine and have tea."

"You've had a bad day and you're focusing on buying me cake."

Harry looks up at that. "Yes," he says. "Because you like cake and I like buying it for you."

"I don't understand you," Draco says. "I don't understand us."

"I don't think we've tried," Harry says. 

Draco looks at him, remembers their entwined fingers. "Would you like us to?"

Harry's finished his food. He pushes the tray down the table, narrowly avoiding the spilled ketchup. 

"Harry."

Harry looks at him. "Yes," he says. "Wouldn't you like to try?"

Draco has been obsessed with being the centre of Harry's attention since he was eleven years old. It didn't stop with adulthood, or with them not seeing each other in years. It just got hidden somewhere, underneath, out of sight. 

"All right," Draco says finally, and Harry smiles.


	10. Chapter 10

The coin glows with a message that says _come rag_ , and is followed up by an immediate second message that just says, _present_. 

Draco knows what that means by now. He sends his own message back, an elegantly scrawled _yes_ , and busies himself removing his clothes. He sends most of his discarded clothes to the laundry pile, his cloak going to the hanger in his wardrobe, the shoes to the shelf in the cupboard where he keeps his outerwear. And then, naked, ready, he kneels down on the floor in his bedroom, cheek resting on his hands, and spreads his legs. 

And waits. 

Harry is ten minutes at most, his arrival characterised by the whip-crack of apparition in the hall downstairs, and then him calling Draco's name. 

"Up here," Draco calls back, and he shifts so that his cheek is resting against the floor and his hands are back where they should be, holding his arse cheeks apart so that he's presenting himself for Harry as he should be. 

His dick's already hard, useless and small, hanging between his legs. 

"Well," Harry says from the open doorway. "Someone's fucking desperate for it, aren't they?"

"Yes," Draco says, even though Harry had asked for it, and all Draco has done is obey. He tries to turn his head a little, get a better view, but the angle's wrong and Harry's not moving from the doorway. 

"My dirty little come rag," Harry says. "So desperate to be used, aren't you?"

Draco nods, his cheek rubbing up against the rug. 

"I can't hear you," Harry says, still without coming any closer. 

"I'm desperate to be used," Draco says, skin going hot and pink. 

"And what are you?"

"Your dirty little come rag," Draco says, and tries not to think about coming. For all the times they've done this now, it surely shouldn't still be making him this hard, and this turned on, and this needy. But it does. He likes the way this feels. He likes the anticipation and the waiting and the position and the desperate, shaming embarrassment of displaying how much he loves to feel this humiliated. 

"Filthy piglet," Harry says, coming closer, and this time there's the sound of clothes being adjusted, and a zip being unzipped. "Dirty piglet, with your stupid, useless cock."

Draco swallows down a whine. 

"Going to come all over you," Harry says, "and I know you can't help but be noisy, so let's hear it. Let's hear it, Malfoy."

Draco groans, pushing his bum up. 

"So fucking desperate," Harry says. "You should be fucking ashamed." The sound of him masturbating is familiar now, the slick sound of his hand moving on his cock. "Could have come at home, instead of having to stare at your useless little cock, but this way I don't have to clean up. Why's that, Piglet?"

"Because I'm your come rag," Draco says. "Because you can come on me and it doesn't matter. I don't matter."

"Yeah," Harry says, hand moving faster now, Draco can hear it. "You got that right. Messy fucking rag."

Draco groans again, his cheek pressed up against the rug. He wants to rub his dick until he comes but the angle's all wrong and his dick isn't big enough. Instead it just hangs there, so fucking hard, and dripping pre-come onto the rug.

"No one should do this," Harry goes on, "want to humiliate themselves like this. But you do, don't you, Draco? You love the humiliation. You crave it. You crave cock."

"Love cock," Draco says. Love it when you humiliate me."

"I know," Harry says. "Dirty little piglet. What are you?"

"Your piglet," Draco says. "Dirty little piglet."

"That's right," Harry agrees. "Roll over."

"What?"

"On your back," Harry says, poking him with his foot. "Arms underneath your knees, really show me that tiny, useless little cock of yours. Show me how hard you get from me telling you you're nothing. Show me your hole."

And Draco obeys, hooking his arms under his knees and drawing them up to his chest, keeping his legs open so his cock and balls and hole are on display. He makes eye contact with Harry and shame courses through him like a flood. 

"What are you?" Harry asks, hand still on his cock. 

"A hole," Draco says. "Something to come on. Nothing."

"Displaying yourself like an animal. And you love it. That useless little cock of yours is ready to come."

Draco cries out. It feels like it's wrenched from inside of him. 

"I could piss on you," Harry says. "Right here, right now. And I'd bet you'd like it."

Draco just nods. It makes his skin burn just thinking of it. The shame and the humiliation and the burning, burning need to come. 

"You'd beg for it," Harry goes on, hand moving furiously. "You'd beg me for anything so long as you got cock out of it."

"I love cock."

"Louder," Harry says. 

"I love cock," Draco says, louder this time. "I'm a cockslut."

"I know you are," Harry says. "Now shout it out. Fucking come-hungry pig."

"I'm a come-hungry slut," Draco calls out, and his voice cracks in the middle of it, pre-come dripping down his cock. "I'm a piglet."

"Yeah," Harry says, hand furious on his cock. "My piglet," he says, and comes. He comes all over Draco's stomach and his cock and his balls and his crack, stripes of come across Draco's skin. 

Draco shudders with it, need pulsing through him. "Harry," he begs, hips rolling up, begging for something to rub up against. He'll rut. He's only an animal, after all. "Please. Let me come. I want to come."

"Piglets are seen but not heard," Harry says, and he steps past Draco and sits down on the edge of the bed, "Get up here and lick my cock clean."

Draco stumbles up to his knees. His limbs shake. His muscles quiver. He leans in and takes Harry's cock in his mouth, lapping at him. He smells like heat and sweat and come. Draco craves the taste. He licks him, swallowing down whatever remnants of come he can find, licks him until Harry's thighs are trembling beneath him, and Harry's hands are in his hair. 

"Settle down, pup," Harry says, and Draco shivers with it. "Just warm my cock. You love cock, don't you?" 

Draco hums around Harry's cock, and Harry's fingers card through his hair. 

"Settle down," Harry says again, still stroking Draco's hair, and Draco can't, he's too close to the edge and it feels too much like his insides are clamouring to get out. "Just stay still, Piglet, and keep my cock warm."

Draco wants to rut against Harry's leg like he's been allowed to do before, but he stops himself. He stops himself. He hasn't been given permission this time, and he doesn't want to be bad for Harry. Harry, who called him pup. Who calls him piglet. He sinks down onto his knees, into the rug, and keeps his mouth around Harry's cock. 

Harry keeps stroking Draco's hair, and after a while, the quivering stops, and Draco stops feeling like he needs to claw his way out of his own skin. 

"There you go," Harry says. "There's my boy."

Draco makes a soft sound of approval in the back of his throat. 

"That's right," Harry says. "My good piglet."

Draco's eyes feel heavy. He closes them for a minute, Harry's hand still stroking his hair. 

"Come on," Harry says, after a while, pulling back so that Harry's cock slips out of Draco's mouth. Draco's lost track of the minutes. "You'll be more comfortable in bed."

Draco complains at that. He won't have Harry's cock in his mouth if he's in bed, and he won't have _Harry_ , except--

Except Harry's standing up and stepping away from him, and he's pulling off his trousers and his shirt, like he's going to get into bed too. 

Draco, bewildered and bemused, climbs awkwardly to his feet. 

"I brought sweet things," Harry says, picking up a box from just outside the bedroom door. "They're yours if you get into bed."

"Are you getting in too?" Draco asks, still confused. 

"Yes," Harry says, and pulls back the sheets. "Gosh, do you really make your bed like this every morning?"

"I'm not a savage," Draco says. There's a beat. "Of course I do."

"I basically just pull the duvet across and call it done," Harry says, climbing into bed and patting the spot next to him, like he's not a stranger to Draco's bed and Draco's side, and like this isn't the first time in their entire lives they're going to be in bed together. "I don't think it really counts."

"It doesn't," Draco says, voice a little rough. He gets into bed and leaves far too big a gap between him and Harry, but Harry just rolls his eyes and moves closer, messing with the pillows so that he's all propped up. Draco stays still and stiff. "I could make your bed for you, if you'd like."

"Pop over every morning and make the bed for me? Hardly fair, is it?"

"I'd like too," Draco says, still stiff. "I'd like to do that for you."

Harry stares at him. "You would, wouldn't you?"

"I'd say _I live to serve_ but it's somewhat of an exaggeration," he says. "I mostly want to serve you."

Harry doesn't say anything to that. He reaches out and strokes his fingers down Draco's arm instead. "Maybe we can work something out."

Draco can't stop watching Harry's fingers grazing his skin. "I'd like that," he says finally. 

"And in return," Harry says, "maybe I can watch you eat sweet things."

Draco understands that about as much as Harry probably understands Draco's desperate need to serve. "You really like that?"

"I love that," Harry says, and he reaches past Draco to the box on the bedside table. It's from a cake shop, and when he opens the lid, there are four slices of cake inside. "This one's a pecan caramel brownie. That one's the… cherry amaretto cake, I think. This one's a lemon chiffon, and this one's a Bailey's chocolate cake."

Draco's brow furrows. "My mother isn't wrong, you know. The Blacks carry cake on their hips."

Harry's smile is almost sad. "And where do the Malfoys carry their weight?"

"My father believed in luxury, but never to excess. My mother believed in moderation."

"And what do you believe in?"

Draco thinks for a minute. "I don't know," he says finally. "Kindness, maybe." He pauses. "You, I think."

"You can eat as much cake as you want, Draco. You can be as soft and as full as you'd like to be. You don't have to eat anything just because I'm suggesting it."

_As soft and as full as he'd like to be. Everything in moderation, everything measured._ He waits a minute before responding. "You wouldn't mind? If I was-- if I took you up on your offer."

"No," Harry says, and his fingers curl around the edge of the cake box. "Would you like me to feed you? I can if you'd like."

Draco can't understand how they get from him humiliating himself on the floor to the two of them sharing a bed with a cake box between them. "Is this us trying?" he asks. 

"It's me trying," Harry says. "I'd like it if it was you too."

Draco lets out a breath, and shuffles a little closer. "Which one are we starting with?"

Harry swallows. "Maybe the chocolate cake." It's glazed with a rich ganache that's leaked over the sides and into the paper wrapping. There's no chance they can eat it without getting it everywhere, even with the cake fork Harry's materialised from somewhere or other. "If you'd like."

"Yes," Draco says, and he watches as Harry presses into it with the cake fork, and comes out with a forkful for Draco to taste. 

"You can wank if you'd like," Harry says, as Draco leans in to take the first mouthful, chocolate already catching his lip and his chin. 

"Please," Draco says, and wraps his hand around his cock. 

"Yeah," Harry says, and goes back for another forkful. "Just like that."


	11. Chapter 11

Draco stood in the street as the drizzle carried on around him, and tried not to make a mess of things. 

There was a cake in the window of the wizarding patisserie, a beautifully decorated, elaborate black forest gateau, full of cream and cherries and rich, elegant chocolate. Draco had a meeting to get to, the owner of a theatre that was trying desperately to battle through centuries of enchantments to keep the building from falling down. Draco had no reason to believe he'd have anyone to share the cake with, even if he bought it. 

Draco, for want of a degree of self preservation, went into the patisserie and bought the cake. Then, with even less self preservation and a strange sense of _what the hell am I doing_ , he slipped inside the post office, and composed a note for Harry:

_I wondered if you'd care to join me for tea and cake this afternoon - around 3.30pm?_

And then, scraping the bottom of the barrel of self-preservation, he signed it, _yours, DM_

The _yours_ was startlingly true. 

He queued up to send his note, and then left for his meeting. 

***

Harry's owl was waiting for him when he got home from the theatre, tapping at the window by the owlery on the terrace, and looking pitifully in Draco's general direction. Draco wasn't sure if it was pity or just hungry for snacks, but nevertheless, he broke into his stocks of owl treats, saving some for Estelle, who was home for a change and looking beadily at him from her perch. 

Harry's note was mercifully short. _Love to,_ it said. _H._

There wasn't any time for Draco to change, so he settled for taking off his coat and ensuring he could press out the worst of the creases caused by being out and about in his shirt and waistcoat and tie. Then he set the water to boil for tea, and decanted the cake from its patisserie box and onto a cake stand. His mother had taken at least two tea sets with her when she'd departed for the continent, but the china cupboards still housed another three. 

Draco misses his mother when he uses the tea sets, misses her scent and her quiet determination, her unwavering belief in Draco's ability to form a respectable match. She hadn't exactly lost that last part, but it can't have been easy for her to see her marriage mart prize go un-sought for. He misses her steady but fierce love for him, and whilst that part at least is clear from their correspondence, it's not the same as when they lived here together, quietly doing their best to just keep moving on. 

They'd take tea in the sun room, he decides, opening up the doors. It opens up onto the terrace, but whilst the weather isn't warm enough for that, there's still a beautiful view of London, the shimmer where the magical world comes to an end and Muggle London continues on beyond his understanding. He sets up the cake on the coffee table by the sofas, and makes sure there's a little fire in the grate to take the chill off the room. He doesn't use it all that often; the flat is too big for just one of them, especially when every corner and every crevice reminds him of his parents. He sets a warming charm on the tea pot, and lays out a cake slice, cake forks, and plates that match the tea cups and the tea pot. 

The doorbell goes on the dot of half past three, which is a little surprising because Harry both has permission to apparate directly into his hall, and because Harry isn't known for his precise punctuality. 

"Hello," Draco says, answering his door. 

"Hello," Harry says. He's wearing a wool coat, knee length and dark wool, fitted in a way that Harry's clothes normally aren't - at least the ones that Draco hasn't adjusted. He clearly sees Draco looking. "Do you like it? Ginny and Hermione helped me choose it."

"Hermione Granger," Draco says, carefully. 

"Normally she hates shopping but I think she was intrigued by the fact I actually asked Ginny for help."

"Ginny Weasley."

Harry has at least the grace to blush. "If it makes you feel any better, she made fun of me the whole time. Hermione did as well, if it helps."

Draco cocks his head to one side. "I'm not sure if it makes it better or worse."

"I couldn't ask you," Harry says. "I wanted it to be a surprise."

"Well, then," Draco says, and steps back, allowing Harry inside. "In that case, I'm appropriately surprised."

"You're not appropriately surprised," Harry says, but he's smiling, and then he tries to get out of his new coat, and makes a complete hash out of it. Draco rolls his eyes and stops him with a hand to his arm. 

"Let me help," he says, and he carefully helps Harry off with his coat. "Just because you've never worn anything that fits in your life."

"Absolutely not," Harry agrees. He elbows Draco, and it's only semi-awkward. "Anyway, next time you can come and be the person laughing at me as I'm trying on clothes. If you'd like."

"I'd like," Draco says, and feels something akin to warmth settle down deep in his belly. "Come through, I've set out tea in the sun room."

"The sun room, huh?" Harry says. "How big is this place, anyway?"

"My parents used to entertain here," Draco says. "It's big enough."

"I grew up in a cupboard," Harry says. "Everything's big to me."

Draco looks at him sharply. 

Harry shrugs his shoulders. "Pretend it's a jokey aside, if you'd like, rather than a biting commentary on my childhood. I meant it to be funny."

Draco just keeps on looking at him. 

"It wasn't entirely terrible," Harry says. "It was warm at least, and it meant I grew up completely unafraid of spiders."

"I grew up thinking I was better than everyone," Draco says. "Is there a way that I can say that that makes it funny?"

"Probably," Harry says. "I wouldn't worry too much, no one ever laughs when I tell them stories about growing up with the Dursleys."

"Harry--"

"Let's not, all right? I came out the other side of it and so did you. And we get to celebrate with cake. Is there an occasion?"

"I saw a cake in a shop window and I wanted it, and I wanted to share it with you."

"There you go," Harry says. "Cause for celebration."

"What are we doing?" Draco asks. 

Harry looks at him. His hair's a mess and whilst he's tried with his new coat, he's still comfortably dressed in jeans and a jumper, neither of which fit him particularly well. He's Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding world. Brave, brilliant Harry Potter. "Trying, I thought," he says finally. 

Draco sighs. "All right. The tea's warmed."

"Good," Harry says. "Just how I like it."

"You're a monster," Draco says, because he feels affection trying to crawl out of his chest and he has nowhere to put it other than at Harry's door. 

Harry grins at him, and, oh, oh dear. Draco is so fucked. 

"It's black forest gateau," Draco says, rather to cover up the desperate realisation that his feelings for Harry go somewhat beyond a business relationship of a sexual nature. 

"Love it," Harry says, sitting himself down on the sofa like it doesn't matter that everything here once belonged to Draco's father. "It looks incredible."

"It should," Draco says. "I got it from the German bakery. They practically wouldn't let me buy it unless I could pronounce Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte properly."

"Well, for that you definitely get the first slice," Harry says. "Was that German?"

"Philistine," Draco says, and attempts to keep the affection out of his voice. It turns out he's not marvellous at it, particularly whilst distracted with tea and cake. He doesn't look at Harry, just cuts him a slice and pours him some tea. Then he does the same, and sits back on the sofa so that their knees are almost touching. The cake is rich with chocolate layers and cherries and cream, and the scent of it is rich with alcohol. 

"Do you ever think about that time you ate off the floor?" Harry asks, after a minute of them both focusing on their cake. 

"Relatively frequently," Draco says, without making eye contact. 

"Okay," Harry says. There's a pause. Draco takes a sip of tea. It's a light ceylon, too light for him perhaps, but the last of his mother's collection. "Would you ever consider doing it again?"

Draco turns to look at him. 

"Not now," Harry says. "We're having tea. Like actual adults."

Draco raises an eyebrow. 

Harry relents. "Another time. Would you like to do it again another time?"

"Did it look like I wasn't enjoying it the first time?"

"You looked like you were enjoying it. Doesn't mean you want to do it again."

Draco attempts not to roll his eyes. There's rather a large part of him that would rather not want to do it again, but the fact remains, he does. "Of course I want to do it again," he says. "Of course I do."

Harry nods. "That's good," he says. "But I was thinking, how would you feel about doing it with cake?"

Draco ignores the fact that his dick has just got hard. The one benefit to having a stupid little dick is that when it gets hard in situations where it shouldn't, it doesn't exactly come across as obvious. "Cautiously positive," he lies. 

Harry looks at the little jut Draco's dick is making. "Cautiously positive, huh? How about if you had your own bowl?"

"I have my own bowls now," Draco says, and lifts the little plate with the cake on it. "Multiple sets, actually."

"You wouldn't want to eat off them on the floor now, would you?" Harry asks. "Surely not your mother's china. Not when you could have your own bowl. With your name on it."

"My name?"

"I was thinking, _Piglet_ ," Harry says, looking like he's mulling it over. Draco's fairly certain he's not mulling anything over, and that, like Draco, he's been thinking about the two of them and what they do in some detail. "Maybe pop into Magical Menagerie and see if I can't pick one up."

"That's a pet shop," Draco says, and his voice catches. 

"Yes," Harry says. "Would you like me to do that?"

Draco's cup catches on the saucer with a clatter. "Yes," he says. "Yes, I'd like you to do that."

"Good," Harry says, like their conversation is completely normal and all right and isn't setting Draco's world just off kilter. "I'll get one for you."

"Thank you," Draco says, because you're supposed to say thank you if someone buys you a gift, and it's best that he's pre-emptive since he's not entirely certain he can picture a situation where Harry Potter buys him a food bowl, like he's an animal, and Draco's able to say thank you. 

"I've been imagining it," Harry says conversationally. "I've been imagining two cakes, though, one for you to eat from your bowl and the other one for you to fuck."

Draco has a quiet but careful internal meltdown and spills tea into his saucer. "Harry--"

"Can you imagine how dirty you'd get?" Harry continues, like Draco's not falling apart. "How filthy you'd be, what you'd look like? How desperate you'd be to come."

"Would you let me?" 

"Come?" Harry makes a face. "Probably," he says. "If only because you'd humiliate yourself, coming all over a cake. And because I'd probably make you eat it afterwards."

Draco considers that for a moment, and then puts his empty cake plate and his cup and saucer back down on the coffee table. "Do you think I could kiss you?" he asks, all in a rush, cheeks pink. It's not the time to consider how similar it sounds to Potter's _doyouwannagotoballwimme_ from all those years ago. It's certainly not the time to consider that Draco's never kissed anyone. The realisation that he'd liked boys had rather put an end to his early Hogwarts exploration, and then he'd really rather fucked his life up by driving himself to the brink with that stupid fucking vanishing cabinet and everything that had come after it, and after that, he wasn't exactly marketable on the marriage circuit, regardless of how hard his mother had tried. 

"Malfoy," Harry says, and Draco's relieved to hear his voice catch. He puts his cup down. 

"It's all right," Draco says, ducking his head. "It's just a-- I wanted to. But we don't have to. We have an arrangement."

Harry reaches for him then, cupping Draco's face in his hands. "You idiot," he says, which isn't romantic at all, and then he's tugging Draco in and pressing his mouth to Draco's. It's not at all like Draco's been imagining all this time, but then they've both eaten a lot of kirsch-soaked cake and Harry's got cream on the corner of his mouth. He makes a soft sound against Harry's lips, and then Harry shifts a little, the angle changing, and his mouth's opening beneath Draco's and, and they're kissing, right there on his mother's sofa, and Draco's hands go automatically to Harry's biceps and hold on. 

"I've been thinking about that for ages," Harry says, breathless, a minute or so later. He's close enough that Draco can see the smattering of pale freckles on his nose, the brightness of his eyes, the way his eyelashes look against his skin as he blinks. 

"I just wanted to," Draco says. "I just wanted to kiss you."

Harry slides a hand into Draco's hair and pulls him closer. "Good," he says, "me too," and kisses him again. 

It's a while later when they pull apart, and Draco considers for a second his inexperience, and then lets it go because Harry looks pink and well-kissed, skin flushed and smiling. "So when do you want to to eat cake from the floor, then?"

Draco's insides feel a little like a catherine wheel. "I was thinking," he says, "of extending you an invitation. I thought perhaps you might like to join me in Scotland for a weekend. I have a house there. It's rather remote. I've updated the wards and there's a Quidditch pitch. You could fly and no one would notice."

"I haven't flown in a while," Harry says. He seems a little surprised by that. 

"Neither have I. Would you like to?"

"More than anything," Harry says. He bumps his knee into Draco's. "And there's a lot we could get up to in a weekend."

"Indeed," Draco says. He glances down at his lap. "And, uh… I thought you could maybe tell me what it is you're going to need from me one day."

Harry's hand stills. "Draco--"

"You don't have to want it then, but you could tell me. I could look into it, perhaps. Be prepared."

There's a pause. "I could very easily tell you that what I wanted was just the opposite side of the coin to what you wanted."

"You could," Draco agrees. "But it isn't, is it?"

"I've liked every bit of what we've done. More than liked. Loved."

"I know," Draco says. "You think we'd still be doing this if you were pretending? If you didn't at least enjoy giving me what it is that I need?"

"I'm getting something out of it too."

"I know," Draco says. "I know you are. But… maybe I could get something out of what you need, too. If you'd let me."

Harry doesn't say anything for a while. He turns away, cuts them both another slice of cake. Draco's is bigger. "Eat up," he says. 

Draco takes the plate. "Think about it," he says. "I think I'd like it if we trusted each other."

"It's not that," Harry says. "I don't know if I know. Or if I do, how to tell you."

"You know something, though. There's something you want."

"Yes," Harry says, and his smile looks rueful. "I'll try, all right? I'll try."

There's a jigsaw puzzle of Harry pieces in Draco's brain and all he's managed to do is fit a few bits and pieces together. Nothing's joined up. Maybe expecting all the answers in one go is too much. He smiles. "Do you want to watch me wank as I eat this?"

Harry snorts a laugh. "I'd fucking love to," he says, and he leans right in to press his mouth to Draco's again. "Get that useless little cock out. Let me watch you wank yourself stupid over cake."

Draco hands his plate to Harry whilst he unbuttons his trousers, getting things out of the way just enough that he can free his little hard cock. He reaches for his plate once he's got one hand wrapped around his pointless erection, but Harry shakes his head. 

"My turn to feed you," Harry says, and he picks up the fork and prepares a mouthful. 

"What are we doing?" Draco asks, hand encircling his cock. He's already slick across the tip. 

Harry holds out the forkful of cake, and Draco obediently opens his mouth. "Fuck knows," Harry says, "but I don't want it to stop."

Draco wanks himself off as Harry feeds him cake, piece by piece. He gets cream on his chin and on his cheek. Harry smears it across his jaw, messing him up. The line of Harry's cock stands pronounced in his jeans. 

Whatever it is they're doing, Draco doesn't want it to end either.


	12. Chapter 12

Draco is careful with his glamour, doing his hair in the mirror before he leaves the flat, straightening his clothes. They're glamoured too, a little less fitted than he would like, and deliberately less expensive looking. It's odd, looking in the mirror and not seeing himself look back, and even though he's had enough practice of slight changes to his appearances over the past few years, it still doesn't completely remove the strangeness of being himself and someone else, all at once. 

The clock by the door chimes a _you're going to be late_ reminder, and Draco squares his shoulders, does up his coat, and leaves. 

Harry is waiting for him on the corner by the tea shop where they'd agreed to meet, hands in the pockets of his nice coat. He looks right through Draco at first, which gives Draco a bit of a jolt since he'd made the assumption Harry could see through glamours. If not that, then how on earth had he recognised Draco that first time, in the back of that bar?

Before Draco can approach him, Harry's shoulders catch like he's just remembered somewhere he needs to be, and he scans the people around him, gaze flitting from person to person, to Draco and beyond, and then back, settling on Draco. 

"Hello," Draco says, hurrying along the pavement. 

"New look today?" Harry asks, looking him up and down. 

"One you haven't seen before," Draco says. "How did you recognise me?"

It might be Draco's imagination, but it's entirely possible Harry flushes. "I'm observant."

"You're absolutely not," Draco says. "At school you were completely oblivious."

"Absolute lie," Harry says, with quite a great deal of conviction. 

"Well, for a start you didn't notice me trying to get your attention through any means necessary," Draco says, since it seems humour is the only way forward, and being a revolting little bully for a significant portion of one's life can't really be swept under the carpet. 

"I absolutely did notice you constantly trying to get in my face, yes, thank you. I remember other things too, like that time you pretended to be a dementor on the off chance it would make me fall off my broom from 50 feet up."

Draco rolls his eyes. "Name five people in our year who weren't in Gryffindor."

"School was a long time ago," Harry counters. 

"Hmm," Draco says, and tries to drag his attention away from Harry's mouth. It's quite difficult now that he's been kissed to stop imagining being kissed _again_. 

"I could do it," Harry says, which is quite clearly a lie, "but it's starting to rain."

"Course you can do it, Potter."

"I can," Harry says, hunching his shoulders against the rain. "But we've got plans."

"We have," Draco says, and lifts his hand, holding it out like a signpost, signalling their walking direction. "Clothes shopping here we come."

"I don't know why I agreed to this," Harry grumbles, as they walk down the street and up the couple of steps to the first shop on Draco's list. 

"Mostly, I would imagine, because I said I'd dress you and undress you if you had any clothes in your wardrobe I didn't want to burn."

"Perhaps," Harry says, but then he's shaking hands with the shop assistant, and putting on this whole _Harry Potter in public_ routine, and to be honest Draco's just glad to fade into the background. 

The shop assistant - whose name is _actually_ Heathen - sweeps Harry off in the direction of the most unsuitable racks of clothes, the ones that Harry would look ridiculous in and hate to wear. Heathen clearly has some lessons to learn, but at least this leaves Draco free to wander the rest of the shop and pick out his own selection for Harry to try. Some of the shirts he finds will be too big, but that's the point of tailoring, they can all be adjusted after purchase, and if they needed further adjustment, then Draco can step in and help out. The Malfoys don't do menial work, but they do pride themselves on their sartorial elegance. 

Draco prides himself on being able to go down on his knees and not wear his trousers out. 

He has an armful of clothes by the time Harry clears his throat from somewhere behind him. 

Draco turns around, and sniggers like he's fourteen again and Harry's just done something stupid in their potions lesson. Harry looks ridiculous, in a heavily patterned shirt with wing collars and huge fern greenery pictures all over. 

"I like it," Harry says, chin tilting up. 

"Potter, if you buy that, you and me are breaking up." There's a solid fracturing of time and space around Draco as he realises he can't steal the words back from the ether. 

Harry looks at him. "Good enough for me," he says, and whirls around. "An absolutely solid no from me," he tells Heathen. "One hundred percent not buying it."

Draco considers sinking through the floor as an option, and then revises that in his head to going down on his knees with his face in Harry's crotch. 

Heathen clearly doesn't think very much of Draco, which is perhaps understandable considering Draco's concerted attempt to blend into the background - he's wearing a pair of _chinos_ with his perfectly mediocre robes, and next to Harry Potter with his magical scar, he's practically invisible. He does think quite a lot of the pile of clothes in Draco's arms though, particularly if it means Harry Potter's going to buy them. It almost doesn't matter that Draco might just have broken something that he holds quite dear, because Heathen takes the piles of clothes into the changing rooms and Harry spends the next half hour changing in and out of them, trooping out and into the shop so that Draco can say either yes or no. The no pile is bigger than the yes pile, but then Draco has always been able to distinguish between what is mediocre and what is a classic cut. 

"I'll take everything in the yes pile," Harry says, stumbling out of the changing rooms quite a while later. "Can we have a break now?" The last part was directed towards Draco, who'd spent the last half hour sitting in the chair by the waiting rooms and not being mauled by an over-enthusiastic shop assistant who kept trying to slip in a bold print when he thought Draco wasn't looking. 

Draco deliberately keeps his face neutral. "From clothes shopping maybe. I think there might be a pet shop around the corner, though. Didn't you want to pick up a few bits and pieces?"

"My flatmate got his pygmy puff from there," Heathen pipes up, even as he's folding up the clothes. 

Neither Draco nor Harry pay him any attention. Harry's smile has turned into something of a smirk. It makes Draco's fingers twitch. 

"That seems like a reasonable plan," Harry says, then he turns his attention back to Heathen. "Do you deliver?"

"We can do," Heathen says, and Draco turns around to pay attention to a selection of really rather terrible accessories whilst Harry works out the details of delivery. 

"Right then," Harry says. "I believe I need a few bits and pieces for my pet."

Draco burns with it, with need, with want, with… something beyond affection. When Harry looks over his shoulder at him, grinning, Draco wants to drop down on his knees right there and then and take his cock in his mouth. Instead, he walks a little behind Harry, just beyond his shoulder. 

Harry waits until they're half way down the road before he stops, turning around. "Can I buy you more than the bowl?"

Draco meets his gaze. "Yes," he says. "Sir."

Harry studies him. "We're going home after this."

"We have a shopping list."

"Yes, and I need to come. We can come back out afterwards."

Draco is suddenly hard. Again. He spends most of his time around Harry hard. "Whatever you need," he says finally, and Harry nods. 

"Good," he says. "Now be a good pet and stay by my side."

****

The pet shop isn't as busy or as frenzied as Magical Menagerie. There's a plump witch behind the counter, sharing a pumpkin pasty with a salamander in a little hat. There are rats and toads and cats and a crup still with its forked tail. There's a snake in one of the glass cages, and Harry stops to check in with it, which is only a little bit strange, even after all this time. And beyond the animals, through a doorway where they both have to duck, are shelves and shelves of pet accessories. 

Draco is trembling, and he can't even quite put his finger on why. 

"Come on, Piglet," Harry says, and it's not quite so quiet that someone nearby couldn't overhear. There might not be anyone here, but that doesn't mean that Draco doesn't know that there could be. He burns red. 

"Harry--"

"What colour would Piglet like, do you think?" Harry says, a little louder than he should do. They're in front of the shelves of food bowls. There's a duck egg blue, a pale green, and a pale pink on one shelf, and then on the shelf below, more solid, fiercer colours. There's a Gryffindor red, and a Slytherin green. 

Draco leans over and touches the Gryffindor red. "This would remind Piglet who owns him," Draco says, and there's a possibility he's turning as red as the bowl. This glamour might blush more than he does. Draco's embarrassment tends to sit on the inside, like an ever-burning fire. 

"It would, wouldn't it?" Harry says. "And Piglet does need to be reminded of his owner." He takes the red bowl off the shelf, and then a second. He reaches for the green bowl after that. "For when he just wants to be who he is."

Draco closes his eyes, just for a moment, but he's afraid Harry caught it anyway. 

"We'll take two of each," Harry says, stacking them and then giving them to Draco to hold without even looking at him. Then he pauses in front of the collars and the leads, fingering the red leather with the golden buckle. "Another time, maybe," he says regretfully, and Draco lets out a breath. 

But then, then, Harry comes to a stop in front of the dog and cat beds. They all look relatively small on the shelf, but the labels promise that they're magically expandable for any pet size. 

There's one that's a red tartan on the outside, and white fleecy fur on the inside. Harry runs his hand over the fleece. "Maybe Piglet needs to learn his place," he says, and adds the tartan pet bed to Draco's pile. 

Draco's heart pounds. 

Harry leans in. He whispers this time. "Maybe I'll only let you wank if you're on your pet bed. What do you think of that? Might not even let you use your hands."

Draco makes a soft, desperate sound in the back of his throat. 

"Do you want me to get the lead? Even if we don't use it yet?"

 _Yet_. Draco nods, his useless little dick rock hard, and Harry adds the collar and the lead to the pile. 

Harry leans in close enough that his breath tickles against Draco's ear. "When we get home, you're going to show me how you wank when you come in from the clubs, when you're so desperate you can't even get to the bedroom, when you wank all over the floor. And if you show me that, I might even let you use your food bowl for the first time."

They're in public. There's no one close enough to hear, but shame courses through Draco. 

"I might even make you crawl around the house," Harry continues. "I think you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Draco nods. "Yes, please."

Harry smirks. "Just think, when we're away in Scotland, you'll be mine to do what I want with for a whole weekend."

"Please," Draco says again, but it's quieter this time, breathier. His dick's pressed up against the zip of his ugly, mediocre chinos. 

"Take them to the counter. I'll pay."

Draco just nods, and he stays quiet even as they're heading for the apparition point at the corner of the road, and all of their purchases are shrunk down small enough that Harry's got them all in a single parcel. 

And then they're apparating back to Draco's, and Draco's shrugging off the glamour and his clothes even as Harry's following him home. He's whining, soft noises at the back of his throat, and Harry watches him shrewdly as he strips off the rest of the clothes in his hallway, getting down on his knees so that he's presenting his arse to the mirror in the hallway, holding his cheeks apart for a moment so that he can see his hole. 

"You dirty, filthy piglet," Harry says, depositing his purchases on the sideboard. "Four seconds in the house and you're shaming yourself like this." 

Draco's cock drips pre-come onto the tiles. He's making more of a stain already, this dirty part of him that's dirtying his family's flat as well as himself. He rocks his hips down. 

"This excited just from me buying you a food bowl, like an animal. We were in public, Draco, and you were two seconds from getting your cock out and wanking right there. Weren't you?"

Draco nods. "Couldn't help it," he says. 

"I know," Harry says. "Stupid animal."

Draco burns red. His dick jumps. 

"Can you even see yourself? 

Draco nods. He can, both in the mirror and in his mind's eye. "I always come here," he says. "There's a stain."

"Show me," Harry says, and Draco obediently moves a little so that Harry can see the marks on the tile. 

"Dirty fucking piglet," Harry tells him. "What are you?"

"I'm a dirty piglet," Draco says. "Can I wank? I want to come."

"I want doesn't get," Harry says, a little distractedly. He's undoing his trousers. "I'm going to come on your face and then I'm going to make you curl up on the dog bed like you're an animal. How do you feel about that?"

"Good," Draco says. He can't believe that less than an hour ago he was sitting outside a changing room whilst Harry tried on clothes that needed independent tailoring, and now he's naked on his hall tiles, mouth open and legs spread, a come-hungry pet with someone who owns him, just like an animal. 

"Good," Harry says, and wraps his fist around his cock.


	13. Chapter 13

Harry fists his cock, standing over Draco with his trousers undone. Draco, naked and hard and desperate, wants to beg for more, to be able to touch himself, to be able to come on the floor like he deserves. 

"Don't touch," Harry says, when Draco makes a move to touch his cock. From where he's standing, he can clearly see Draco's arse in the mirror. "Present for me, I want to see your stupid hole."

Draco has to stop resting on his hands for that, leaning forward so that his cheek's resting against the tiles as he reaches behind himself to pull his arse cheeks apart. Harry can probably see Draco's useless little cock hanging between his legs too, leaking pitifully onto the floor like the desperate, filthy piglet he is. 

"You were always so fucking superior," Harry says, "thought you were better than the rest of us, didn't you? But all the time you wanted this. What are you?"

"A hole," Draco says, and he wants so desperately to rut against something, make himself come. Even the floor would do despite the chill. "A rag for your come. Nothing."

"That's right, Piglet, isn't it? Just a rag for me to come on. Just a hole."

Draco whines. He can't help himself. 

"Going to make you crawl," Harry says. "Make you eat from a bowl on the floor like an animal. I can't believe you want that. You should feel ashamed."

Draco does feel ashamed. He feels shame right down to the tips of his toes. It just makes him harder. It makes him want it more. 

"Tell me what you do when you get home by yourself."

Draco doesn't look up. His cheek's cold against the tile. "Take all my clothes off," he says. "Look at how small my dick is in the mirror. How hard it is."

"Why's it hard?" Harry's still masturbating, hand fisted around his cock.

"Because I went down on my knees for strangers. Because I'm a come-hungry piglet and I got to be a hole for their come."

"You didn't _get to be_ , that's just what you are."

"I know. I'm sorry. I'm just a hole."

"Better," Harry says. "Then what?"

"I turn around and I get on my knees," Draco says, and his skin feels hot. He wants to stop holding his arse cheeks apart to show off his hole and touch his useless little cock instead. "And I present like this, so I can look behind me and see in the mirror what I am."

"And what are you?"

"A hole. A piglet. A come rag."

"That's right," Harry says. "Do you tell yourself that?"

Draco nods, his cheek scratching against the tile. 

"Then what do you do? Do you masturbate?"

"Yes," Draco says, and _masturbate_ sounds dirtier than _wank_ , and he doesn't know why. "I masturbate."

"Filthy fucking piglet, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir," Draco says. "I masturbate my tiny little cock until I come on the tiles."

"And you leave it there, like an animal would."

Draco nods again, cheek pressed against the tile. "So I can see it and always be reminded of what I am."

"I should make you clean it up with your tongue."

Draco whines again, his hips rocking forward.

"Oh," Harry says. "Oh, you filthy little pervert."

"Yes," Draco admits. "Please. I'll do that."

Harry bumps his toe into Draco's shoulder. "Up on your hands and knees, I need something to come on and your face seems like an easy option."

Draco scrambles up onto his knees, his little cock jutting out proudly, dripping slick. 

"Open your mouth," Harry says, "may as well make use of one of your holes."

Draco opens his mouth, flushed but obedient. Oh, he wants to be used so badly. He wants it so fucking much. He wants _this_. 

"You shameful creature," Harry says, hand fast on his dick, "you dirty little piglet."

Draco whines, desperate, and Harry starts to come. He comes mostly in Draco's mouth, over his lips and his tongue, and it catches his cheeks and his jaw too. He tries to lick it up. He's a come-whore. A come-hungry little piglet, and he wants to fucking come. 

"No touching," Harry says sharply. He's leaning on the sideboard, flushed, catching his breath. He picks up his parcel and gets something out of his pocket, and then stands up straighter, tucking his cock away one-handed. "Crawl, Piglet. Piglets eat from the kitchen floor."

Draco drops down onto his hands and knees. His skin burns. Inside it feels like he's on fire. If his father could see him now, crawling naked on his hands and knees into the Malfoy kitchen, following Harry Potter there as he carefully unties the string around their pet shop parcel. 

"What are you?" Harry asks conversationally, un-shrinking their parcels. He gets one of the Gryffindor red bowls and holds his wand to it, and when Draco looks again, it says - in big, gold, Gryffindor caps - PIGLET DRACO around the rim. 

"A come-hungry little piglet," Draco says, his cock leaking. 

"That's right," Harry says, opening a box of something that Draco can't see. "What else?"

"A hole," Draco says. "A come rag."

"You'd masturbate anywhere if I told you to, wouldn't you? And you'd like it?"

"Yes," Draco says. It doesn't matter how true it is or isn't. It's true now, in this moment. 

"Get your cock out anywhere I told you to, let everyone see what a pointless little thing it is."

"Yes," Draco agrees. He's red everywhere, humiliation seeping through him. He might come even without touching himself. 

"Get down," Harry says, and he turns around with Draco's food bowl full. He puts it down in the middle of the floor, with the PIGLET DRACO facing Draco. In the bowl are mini Battenberg cakes, cut into bitesize pieces. Sugar and marzipan and pink and white squares of cake. "Eat up."

There's a whole packet of mini Battenbergs in there. Draco licks his lips, mouth watering. He glances at Harry. 

"Piglets eat from a trough," Harry says. "Get on with it."

Draco bends over the bowl and nips at the first piece of cake with his teeth. He gets sugar on his nose from where he bumps up against the rest of the piled up cake pieces. Shame rattles through him. It feels so good, being down here on his hands and knees, eating from the floor like an animal, Harry watching him. He gobbles up half the bowl with ease, bits of cake on his nose and his cheeks, sticking to the come that Harry had left there in the hall. He even gets some on his eyelashes. 

Harry crouches down next to him. "I've been thinking about you fucking a cake," he says. "Two cakes. Your face in one and your dick in another. Have you been thinking about that too?"

Draco nods, scrambling for another bite of cake. 

"Chocolate, I think," Harry says. "With icing. You'll get it everywhere."

"Yes," Draco says, and Harry slides his hand into Draco's hair, stroking him like a pet. 

"Do you think you'll like that? Being that dirty with your food?"

"I want it," Draco tells him, going for another piece of cake. A few weeks ago he would barely have let himself eat a single piece, and now he's eating a bowl full, Harry's hands in his hair, and he's craving more. He wants sweets, wants cake and sugar and treats and permission to eat as much as he'd like to. 

Harry's hands leave his hair, but then he's reaching beneath him and touching Draco's stomach. "You're getting softer," he says. "Getting a bit of tummy on you, aren't you? All those sweet things. All these lovely bits of cake you're enjoying."

Draco whines. 

"You have permission," Harry tells him. "You have all the permission you want to eat exactly what you want. All the sweet things you need."

"Harry--"

"Eat up," Harry says. "Eat all the sweets you want. All the cake." He keeps touching Draco's stomach - his softening tummy, no longer as lean and skinny as he had been. He's got a little curve there now, a softness that his mother had always warned against. Less sharp edges. 

Draco ducks his face into his food bowl, and chases a bit of cake around the bowl, sugar getting everywhere. 

"Such a dirty little piglet," Harry tells him, but then his hand curls around Draco's little cock and gives him a little tug. "Such a desperate, hard little piglet. Such a tiny cock."

Draco licks at some of the sugar in the bowl before picking up another little piece with his teeth. He's being masturbated whilst he eats cake from the floor. Even in his wildest fantasies over the past few years, he'd never got here. He'd never even known he could think about it, let alone live it. Let alone get what he wanted from Harry fucking Potter. 

"I bet you're going to come on the floor, aren't you? Such a filthy little piglet, horny as fuck. I'm going to make you lick it up," Harry goes on, fingers moving slowly on Draco's cock. "You're too small for me to even get my fist around."

"My cock's so tiny," Draco says, although his voice is partially muffled by the cake. 

"It is, isn't it? Hardly even a cock at all. A cocklet, maybe."

Draco makes a sharp, desperate noise in the back of his throat. 

"Oh, there you go," Harry says. "A cocklet. Not even good enough to have a proper cock, are you?"

"No," Draco manages, but his skin is burning red. 

"Hardly the stuff dreams are made of, is it?" Harry goes on, sounding bored. "Wanking your cocklet off all over your kitchen floor whilst you gorge yourself on cake."

"I'm greedy," Draco says. "Greedy soft piglet with a stupid cocklet."

"Glad you're getting it," Harry says. "Hurry up and finish, will you? I'm bored."

Draco chases the remaining cake around his food bowl, trying to nip at the last couple of pieces with his teeth. He ends up having to squash them against the side of the bowl with his nose, and it gets everywhere. But all the time, Harry's hand is on his little cock, a deliberately irregular, lazy rhythm. He gobbles up the last bits of cake, not caring at all that he's getting his face even messier, and that there's even cake in his hair. He rocks his hips down into Harry's lazy fingers, and he feels honestly like the stars might explode if he doesn't get to come soon. 

"Come on the floor, Piglet," Harry says. "Come on."

And Draco, so close to the edge, his cocklet twitching in Harry's fingers, does. 

He comes in stilted little jerks, all over Harry's fingers and the floor, and then Harry's holding his fingers in front of Draco's mouth and Draco does what come-hungry piglets are supposed to do, and he licks his own come off Harry's fingers. 

He licks and licks, until Harry's fingers are spit wet and shiny, and there's no more come to be had. 

Then Harry gives him a soft slap on the thigh. "You've made a mess, Piglet. Get your mouth down there and clean it up."

Draco burns with his shame. Maybe the stars are exploding now, and this is what it feels like. His skin's on fire. He's messy with cake and come and sugar and humiliation. He crawls out of the way of his mess, a little wet patch of come on the tiles. His house is always spotless, and other than the mess around his food bowl, there's only one dirty bit, and it's where he's come on the floor. 

"I'm not waiting all day," Harry says, and Draco - on fire with wanting it so much - leans down and laps at his come with his tongue. 

"Clean it all up," Harry says. "You're not supposed to be enjoying this, but you are, I can tell. Your little cocklet's twitching again."

 _Cocklet_ , Draco thinks, over and over again. Not even a proper cock. He shivers with it, lapping at the floor. 

He keeps licking until Harry strokes at his hair. "That's enough," he says. "That's enough, Draco."

Draco whines again, but Harry just keeps stroking his hair. "You've cleaned up," he says. "You've cleaned it all up. You can stop now."

Draco tries to shake his head, but Harry slides his hand into his hair. 

"Up you get," Harry says, and Draco looks up, bewildered, to see the magically expanded tartan pet bed next to him on the floor. "Get in."

Draco crawls awkwardly in, his head a tumultuous mess of shooting stars and sound. He doesn't know what Harry wants from him. Harry's kneeling on the floor next to it, still fully dressed. 

"Settle down," Harry says. "Get comfortable." He helps Draco settle so that Draco's cheek is pillowed on Harry's thigh. The pet bed is ridiculously soft. Harry's not asking anything of him right this second, so Draco closes his eyes, and Harry doesn't tell him to open them again. He just keeps stroking Draco's hair. "That's right," Harry says. "There you go."

Draco breathes.


	14. Chapter 14

When Draco comes out of his dressing room, his hair still damp, he finds Harry sitting on his bed. 

"Don't you own anything comfortable?" Harry asks, looking Draco up and down. 

Draco doesn't bother looking down. He's dressed in his normal clothes again, neat and precise, right down to his waistcoat. His wand's on the dressing table and he fully intends on drying his hair with it. "And by comfortable, you mean--"

"I mean," Harry says, waving his hand in Draco's general direction, "you know, comfortable. Not buttoned up."

Draco rolls his eyes. "Just because you own nothing I wouldn't burn." He goes over to the dressing table for his wand, murmuring the spell to dry his hair. 

"Absolutely untrue," Harry says, settling back against Draco's pillows and fucking them up. "You like that coat, and we bought all those clothes this morning, they might have been delivered by now."

"They need tailoring," Draco says, studiously avoiding meeting Harry's gaze in the mirror. "They don't count as being part of your wardrobe until they actually fit you."

"Anyway, whatever," Harry says. "We're talking about you. What do you own that counts as, you know… casual wear."

"You should dress in your own home as if you were always expecting visitors," Draco says. 

"You've got visitors," Harry says. "And I'm saying it might be nice if you felt a little bit less… restricted."

"I don't feel restricted. And I don't remember saying you had to stay. I sort of thought you'd be gone by now." Draco had finished washing after their adventures in the kitchen earlier, and had come out of the bathroom fully expecting Harry to have left. Instead, he's sitting on Draco's bed in his outside clothes, shoes kicked off, flicking through some of Draco's books. 

Harry just rolls his eyes. "You've been in suits since you were fourteen, you've probably never even owned anything comfy, I don't even know why I'm asking you."

"There are certain expectations--"

"There were," Harry says. "You don't have to live up to them anymore. Not if you don't want to."

Draco's hand tightens around his hairbrush. He doesn't meet Harry's eyes in the mirror as he neatens his hair. 

"Do you need permission? Because I can give you permission."

"Harry."

Draco must sound at least a little sharp, because Harry closes the book he's flicking through, and neatens up Draco's bookmark. 

"All right. I'll leave it." There's a pause. "You've at least got nice PJs, right?"

Draco finishes fucking with his hair and puts his brush down. "I have perfectly acceptable pyjamas, Potter."

"Hmm," Harry says. "Show me them."

"You want to see my pyjamas?"

"I want to know if I'm right or not," Harry says. "Show me your pyjamas, Malfoy."

Draco can usually do a fairly good job of partitioning off his brain so that the part of him that gets naked and eats cake off the kitchen floor from a pet bowl feels entirely separate to the part of him that's standing in front of Harry under normal circumstances. Sometimes, though, it feels a little blurry, like when Harry's telling him to do something. 

With a roll of his eyes, he goes over to the chest of drawers and opens the middle drawer. His pyjamas are neatly ironed and folded in pairs, cotton shirts and trousers. 

Harry touches three of the sets in turn. "Not much give in these," he says. "They don't look very comfortable."

"They're pyjamas," Draco says, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't confused. "What else do you want from them?"

Harry turns around. "What I want, Draco, is for you to own one thing that's like, I don't know, soft and comfortable and that you can relax in. Nothing you own is soft. It's all sharp corners."

"They're pyjamas," Draco says again, because he doesn't have anything for Harry right now that isn't that. 

"Yes," Harry says, after a beat. "Will you let me buy you another pair?"

"I suppose," Draco says. "I can tell you where I normally buy them from."

"No," Harry says. He's standing close enough to Draco that Draco can tell he's washed his face too, his shirt collar unbuttoned. "I didn't really take very much away from the Dursleys, other than a general understanding of how not to bring up children--" 

Draco makes a sharp sound at the back of his throat. 

"No one laughs at my jokes about growing up," Harry says again. "Anyway, I didn't learn very much growing up except how to cook for other people, and, I mean, how to clean up without magic. And I suppose, how to be quiet enough that it's like you're not there, and, oh yes, how to survive when you're locked in a bedroom for most of the summer--"

Draco attempts to temper his expression. 

"Everyone makes that face," Harry says. "Hermione still looks like she might cry sometimes. Ron and his brothers had to break me out one summer, but Fred and George taught me to pick locks after that, so not the end of the world. Normally I try not to talk about it anymore because, you know, people looking like they might cry is a bit rubbish but I thought I might try my material out on a new audience."

"Me," Draco says. 

Harry shrugs. "Yes, you. It's okay if you don't want me to talk about it."

"Have you ever been able to talk about it?"

"A bit," Harry says. "Ginny used to try, but she just wanted to fix it, you know? Which is fine. All the Weasleys just budged over and made a space for me in their family, and now they're my family. Not blood, obviously, but it doesn't mean that I don't have anyone. And I love them loads." 

There's a sort of desperate, aching sadness taking root in Draco's chest. 

"And anyway, it all sort of got swept away with the whole, you know, Voldemort chosen one thing, and fighting evil from the age of eleven. All sort of overshadowed the bits that came before. And during, you know."

There's something there, Draco can tell. A bit more of the jigsaw. Pieces he didn't have before. Harry's testing the waters, but for what, Draco doesn't know. "You can talk to me," he says finally. "You can tell me about it. You can even tell me which bits are supposed to be the funny bits so I'll laugh."

"Laughing's good," Harry says. "Anyway, pyjamas. If there's one thing I learned from my Aunt Petunia, it's where to get good pyjamas from. How do you fancy a trip to Marks and Spencer?"

Draco tilts his face to one side. "What?"

"Marks and Spencer," Harry repeats. "Good for pants, socks, and pyjamas. And other things, but mostly them. It's Muggle, so you don't need to wear a glamour. It can just be me and you."

"Shopping for pyjamas," Draco says. 

"Yes," Harry says. "Do you want to go now?"

"Um," Draco says, which Harry seems to take as a wholehearted _yes_. He's already half way out the door, leaving Draco's bed untidily strewn with pillows and the covers all rucked up, and his books all over the blanket. "You left my things in a mess."

Harry rolls his eyes. "It's fine, Draco," he says. "If you come now, I'll buy you a nice iced bun from the food hall as a treat."

"I don't respond to treats," Draco says, but as he's already out in the hall by this point, it lacks a certain conviction. 

****

They end up taking the tube, which Harry thinks is a fairly reasonable way to travel and Draco considers to be one of the worst things that's happened to him, considered outside of everything to do with the Dark Lord. He holds on for dear life and is squashed in-between women with shopping bags and teenagers with mobile telephones and the whole time they're hundreds of feet below London, and at least with magic you know where you stand. With Muggles, everything has the capacity to go rather terribly wrong. 

Harry smirks at him from the other side of the carriage, where he's squashed in next to a tall woman in a headscarf and someone with tattoos on their face. 

Draco does not like the tube one bit, and when he stumbles off when Harry indicates they're supposed to be getting out, he resolves he's never doing that again. 

"Why didn't we apparate?" he asks in an undertone, as they follow the stream of Muggles heading for the exit. 

"Don't know the area," Harry says, with a shrug. "Didn't know where to apparate to. Anyway, it's always nice to go out and not have anyone know who you are."

"Is it," Draco says grimly, and then it all gets worse because he's faced with a busy escalator as the only way out, and if there's one thing he's never understood - even from frequent re-readings of Martin Miggs - it's how escalators are supposed to work. 

"Get a move on," someone yells from behind him, and there's a _queue_ , and Harry ends up tugging him on by the elbow. 

"Stand on the right," someone else yells, and Draco has no idea about how he's standing upright or not dying or anything, so it's down to Harry again to wrap an arm around him and tug him into his side on the right of the escalator. 

A steady stream of people then traipse past them, marching up the escalator, and Draco is even more confused. He's also still standing on the step below Harry, and Harry's still got his arm around Draco's shoulders. 

People don't touch Draco. He can probably count on the fingers of one hand the people who've touched him in the last ten years, the strangers in clubs aside. His skin tingles beneath Harry's touch. At the top of the escalator he jumps off awkwardly, and is just about to announce to Harry that he's never riding another escalator in his whole entire life when they round a corner and there's another one. 

"No," Draco says, quite politely. "I'm not doing that again."

Harry rolls his eyes, and pokes Draco in the direction of the escalator. He slips an arm around Draco's waist this time, standing behind him and nudging him forward. 

"And step," Harry says, telling him when to get on. Draco does, and doesn't die, which is nice. Harry keeps his arm around Draco's waist, which is also nice. He strokes his fingers over Draco's hip, and when they get to the top of the escalator he shuffles Draco off and onto solid ground, and towards the ticket barriers. Then he presses a card into Draco's hand, and tells him to tap and walk through the gates. 

Draco does it too slowly and is almost cut in half by the ticket gates. He darts forward, free of the gates, and then marches up the stairs to where he can be outside and not be in danger of death by Muggle. 

Harry catches him up. "That was cool."

Draco blinks at him. "You're mad," he says. "I'm never doing that again. People shouldn't be underground like that."

Harry makes a face. 

"What?"

"You were in Slytherin," Harry says. "Wasn't, like, your entire boarding school existence mostly, like, dungeon-centric?"

"Shut up," Draco says, which was not the most biting or cutting remark he's ever made, but he just almost died, so he won't blame himself too harshly. "Where's this shop we're going to?"

"Around here somewhere," Harry says, and then - without asking, or making a big deal about it - he slips his hand into Draco's. "Come on."

"Um," Draco says, and lets himself be led down the road. He's really lost his edge. 

"You're thinking too much," Harry says without looking back at him. "I can hear you."

"You cannot," Draco says. But then, he did live in a house with the Dark Lord. "You can't, can you?"

"No," Harry says. "I just know you are. It's all right."

"This was a business arrangement," Draco says weakly. 

"It was," Harry agrees. "It's not anymore though, is it?" There's a pause, and Harry stops, pulling them over to the edge of the pavement, out of the way of the busy shoppers. "Did I get that wrong?"

Draco shakes his head. "No," he says. His heart's pounding. "No, it's not that anymore."

"I don't even know if it ever was," Harry says. "I feel like I've just been, like, obsessed with you for the whole time I've known you."

"I was a horrible little snot with a superiority complex."

"You were," Harry agrees. "And I was obsessed with you."

"Even Crabbe and Goyle used to tease me about how fixated on you I was," Draco says. "And together the two of them had the collective intelligence of a sandwich."

"They were your friends."

"Yes," Draco says. "And I picked them because they thought I was important. You didn't think I was important."

Harry gives him half a smile. "I dunno," he says. "I used to watch you on that map all the fucking time. I didn't watch anyone else."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"No," Harry says. "It's cold out here. Can we talk about this later?"

"Yes," Draco says, because his hand is still in Harry's and it doesn't look like it's going anywhere soon. "All right."

"Cool," Harry says. "Look, M&S is over there."

"No more escalators," Draco says, as Harry half drags him over the road. "Promise me."

"I can't promise anything," Harry says, "but I'll hold your hand if we have to do anything scary."

"You're holding it now."

"Yes," Harry says. "Like I said. I'll hold your hand if we do anything scary."

Harry Potter, the chosen one, the saviour of the wizarding world, brave Gryffindor Harry Potter, youngest seeker in a century, is holding Draco's hand in public. 

And Draco likes it. 

****

Marks and Spencer is a confusing place, full of oddly shaped clothes and things that show off far too much skin for a respectable witch or wizard. 

"What's that?" Draco asks, as they file through some of the racks in search of the pyjamas. 

"A bikini," Harry says. 

Draco looks perplexed. "I don't think I want one of those."

"Okay," Harry says. "It wasn't on my list, but let me know if you change your mind and we'll get you one, though."

"I don't even know which bits it's supposed to cover."

"Nipples," Harry says. "And the underwear area. You have seen a bra before, right?"

"Not _on_ anyone," Draco says, going pink. 

"What do witches wear when they go to the beach?"

"Is that a joke?" Draco asks. "What's the punchline?"

"I am, I think," Harry says. "Why have I never considered what witches wear on holiday before?"

"A full length robe in a breathable colour and material," Draco says, still pink. 

"See, this is why we didn't have swimming lessons at Hogwarts, isn't it?"

Draco looks horrified. "Are you supposed to swim in bikinis?"

"This is, um--" Harry says. "Maybe I really am completely oblivious to everything that goes on around me."

"Yes," Draco says. 

"I sent you out in a _vest_ ," Harry says. 

"Was that the sleeveless top?" Draco asks. "I think that's the most skin I've ever shown in my life."

"Merlin," Harry says. "All right."

"This is a very strange shop."

"Honestly," Harry says, "you'd think I'd have noticed that _Witch Weekly_ never shows a skirt above the knee. I really am genuinely completely unobservant."

"Are you talking to yourself, or to me?"

"Possibly both," Harry says. He rolls his eyes. "Come on, let's go and find you some full coverage pyjamas."

"As opposed to what?" Draco asks, puzzled. This shop is very strange. There are perfectly ordinary people wearing the kinds of clothes that Draco has only seen in clubs, where there's quite a lot of skin on show, but also people like to have sex in the back room. Draco likes to have sex in the back room. He'd sort of made the assumption that the two things were linked. Martin Miggs never looked like this. 

"Do you know," Harry says, as they file in-between racks of short skirts and longer skirts and skirts with splits up the side, "this makes the fact that you like to get naked in front of me even dirtier."

"Uh-huh," Draco says, holding on to Harry's hand for grim life. 

"Have you ever worn shorts?"

"No," Draco says, in horror. "Ronald Weasley was wearing sandals in public the first time I went to his sister's house, that was bad enough."

"Flip-flops," Harry says. "He loves a flip-flop."

"Of course," Draco says. "Can we go home yet?"

"Soon," Harry says, amused, and he leads Draco to where the pyjamas are. 

And the pyjamas are _strange_. They're soft and stretchy and have _pictures_ on them. There's one pair that are red and have llamas on. They don't move, which is odder, they just sort of sit there, still. Another pair have mermaids on - clearly drawn by someone who's never ever seen a real one, and has omitted to draw in the talons - and there are some with puppies on and sloths and pandas. Some are _fuzzy_. There are also big furry dressing gowns and slippers and fluffy socks. 

Draco's chest feels sort of odd. 

"These are just the women's," Harry says, looking around. "The mens section is… up there, look, there's a sign. Upstairs."

Draco has had a lot of practice at hiding his true feelings, and if leaving the soft pyjamas and the fluffy dressing gowns behind is a wrench, then he's pretty clear he's not showing it on his face. 

Upstairs is miserable. The mens section is much more his style, solid colours and the patterns understated and designed to fit in more with his decor at home. They're softer than the ones he has at home, but part of him wants to go back downstairs and touch the soft picture ones again. He'd never wanted them before this moment, so not getting them shouldn't be a problem. Except it is. 

He picks out a dark green pair with black piping. "These are nice."

"They are," Harry agrees. There's a pause. "I think the ones downstairs were softer. I think you deserve soft things."

"I make you humiliate me so I can get off," Draco says quietly. "The things I want are shameful. What about any of that makes you think I deserve soft things?"

Harry's hand is hot in his. "I just do," he says. "I just do, all right? I want to give you what you want and I also want to find out what you need, and I think this is a part of that? I think it is, anyway. I think you want it."

"I do," Draco says. "But I didn't even know. How did you know when I didn't?"

"The same way you knew it wasn't… the same way you knew that what I need isn't something I've already asked for. The same way you knew I sometimes need looking after too."

They should not be having this conversation in the middle of the pyjamas section in Marks and Spencer. 

"I want the ones downstairs," Draco says. "I don't want these."

"All right," Harry says. 

"And then I want to go somewhere I can kiss you."

"Draco."

"I want to kiss you again."

Harry just looks at him. He's a little flushed. His hair's messy and underneath his nice coat his clothes are scruffy and ill-fitting. He does all the filthy things that Draco needs him to do, does all of that and more, and then afterwards, he treats Draco kindly. He does nice things for Draco, and he's the only person outside of his mother that's done that in years. 

"Harry."

"Yes?"

"Whatever you need. Whatever it is. I'll find a way to give you it."

"You might not want to."

"I don't care. I'll do it."

"Don't promise."

"Too late," Draco says. "I promise."

Harry, for a second, looks so desperately full of longing that it hurts. "Please don't do that. Please. Because if you say no now--"

"I won't," Draco says. "It doesn't matter what it is. You deserve a kindness too. I think you deserve it probably a lot more than I do."

Harry looks oddly like he's about to cry. Draco's never seen him look like that before. 

"I promise," Draco says again. "I promise you."

"Let's go," Harry says. "We'll go downstairs, we'll get you pyjamas, and then we'll go somewhere I can kiss you, all right?"

He picks the red pair with the llamas on, and a huge fluffy dressing gown that has _bear ears_ when you pull up the hood, and Harry chucks two pairs of fluffy deer socks into the basket as they're passing with no explanation whatsoever. Then they go downstairs to the food hall, where Harry heads for the bread aisle, chucks something else in the basket, and then they join a queue of people waiting to pay. Harry pays with an actual credit card like Martin Miggs, and they leave the shop by the side entrance with two big green carrier bags. This street is much quieter than the one at the front of the shop, but instead of leading them back to where it's busy, Harry takes them the other way, to a quiet back street. Then he turns off, into a little alleyway next to a coffee shop. There are signposts for a gym where you can take pilates classes, whatever they are, but there's no one else around. 

"What's down here?"

"I thought we could apparate," Harry says, but he's opening a little velvet bag from his pocket instead, and putting their shopping inside of it. The bag's tiny, but their large shopping bags go in easily. "The Mary Poppins effect," he says, like that's supposed to mean something, but it doesn't so Harry just puts the little bag back in his pocket. 

"You never make any sense."

"Sometimes I do," Harry says, and then he backs Draco up against the wall and kisses him, swallowing down Draco's whine of surprise. 

Draco, taken off guard, takes a moment to respond. Harry's lips are cold, or maybe his are. Maybe they both are, but it doesn't stop him from reaching up and cupping Harry's face in his hands, his thumbs to Harry's cheeks. There's stubble beneath his fingertips. Harry's glasses bump into his nose. Harry's tongue is in his mouth and he's kissing Draco and Draco's kissing back, and all those years he'd hated him, all those years he'd fantasised about being better than him, beating him at Quidditch, wiping the smile off his face, all of those things could have just been wiped out by this, by kissing him. 

Harry's hands are in his hair. His heart's pounding and his dick's getting hard and his fingers tremble with it, because he loves him. He _loves Harry_. He loves him and it's terrible and he kisses him again, breath catching in his throat, tearing at his chest. Draco is unlovable, because his mother doesn't count and his father's dead and there's never been anyone else. He's unlovable but Harry treats him like that's not true, like what he wants is all right, like what he needs isn't the most disgusting thing in the world. 

Draco pulls away. There's a part of him that just wants to go down on his knees for him, right here in the street where anyone could walk by, but that part of him's always there, always trying to claw its way to the surface. 

"Can we go home?"

Harry wraps his arms around Draco's shoulders. "Hold on," he says, and then the air's swirling around them and they're whipped away, whipped away from the little alleyway in central London, and are back in Draco's flat instead, inside the vestibule where the permissible guest wards start. 

The doors unlock for Draco at a flick of his wand, and then they're inside and Harry's shrugging off his coat. Draco follows suit, although when Harry kicks off his shoes, Draco undoes the laces with his wand and steps out carefully. 

Harry just smirks at him. "Always so careful."

"Yes," Draco says, and he stands in his hallway in his socks and doesn't look at the stain on the tiles from where he liked to make a mess. "I want you to kiss me until I come."

"It's funny, that," Harry says. "Because I want you to kiss me until _I_ come."

"Hilarious," Draco says, and his heart's pounding. 

Harry looks at him. "Take me to bed," he says, after a moment. "Just take me to bed."

"A guest always waits to be invited."

Harry rolls his eyes. "All right, I'm waiting."

Draco grins, and holds out his hand. "Come on," he says, and tugs Harry down the hall to his bedroom. 

They strip quickly, and not even the part of Draco that is desperate to serve is enough to slow them down. He's naked, his little cock stiff and leaking, before Harry's finished taking off his jeans. They're not… what they've done together hasn't really been the two of them naked together, at least not like this. 

Harry's skin is pink. He turns back the covers. "Are you getting in?"

"If you are," Draco says, and Harry rolls his eyes, takes his glasses off, and climbs into bed. 

Draco follows suit, sliding in next to him, and they pull the covers up and over them even as Harry's moving closer and his dick's pressing up against Draco's hip. So much skin. They're touching everywhere, pressed together from shoulder to hip to knee. Their feet entwine under the covers. Harry's breath is hot against his cheek. Draco's never been this physically close to anyone in his whole entire life. 

He slides his hand down into the small of Harry's back. His skin so soft. He's so warm. He'd never really-- well. The reality of being with someone is different from how it had been in his head. 

"Stop thinking so much," Harry says, his words fuzzy against Draco's lips, and then he's kissing him again. He kisses him over and over, and Draco kisses back until his dick's slick with pre-come and bumping up against Harry's much larger dick. 

"I'm so small," Draco says. "I'm sorry."

Harry grins against his mouth. "We're not doing that right now," he says, "and as if I care, anyway? Whatever. Shut up."

"Nice," Draco says, but Harry's slipping his hand down between them and cupping Draco's dick and balls. 

"Stop whining and wank me off," Harry says, and Draco's half way through thinking up a clever response when Harry kisses him again, covering his mouth with his own and cutting off any further attempts at witty repartee. Not that it matters too much, because Draco's focus is on his hand around Harry's cock, and Harry's hand around his, and he's groaning into Harry's mouth as they kiss, and touch, and rub up against each other. 

He's not going to last very long, but even in the nicest of circumstances Draco can always find something to feel ashamed of, even if Harry's smiling against his mouth, breath catching, and not that far from coming himself. 

"Come for me," Harry says, breathless. "Come for me, Draco, come on."

And Draco can't resist being told what to do, even now. His hips rock up and he comes, into Harry's hand and over his and Harry's dick. 

"Use it to make me come," Harry tells him, even as Draco's panting into his mouth, their kisses breathless and slick. "Please."

So Draco does, he uses his come as slick, Harry's hand covering his own until they're both wanking Harry off and Draco just wants to keep on kissing him for as long as he's allowed. 

When Harry finally does come, it's with a cut-off cry against Draco's mouth, and he spurts all over Draco's dick. He pants into Draco's cheek, hips rocking as he pulses, and it's sticky and hot and sweaty and not like Draco imagined at all. 

Afterwards, sprawled on his back and staring up at the ceiling, Draco lets Harry tuck himself into Draco's side, arm across his chest. 

"That was nice," Harry says. 

"Yes," Draco says. "It was."

Harry pinches a nipple. "You're thinking again."

"A bit. Just, you know. Are you ever going to want to fuck me?"

Harry rolls up onto his elbow. "Are you insane?"

"Well, it's not like you've ever, you know, gone for it."

"Draco. You're a virgin." He relents. "For a value of virginity that doesn't mean very much to me, but means an awful lot to you."

Draco blinks. "I, uh, thought you didn't want to."

"It means something to you. That was your marriageable commodity. You said so. I'm not taking that away from you unless you explicitly ask me to."

Draco finds himself going red without his permission. "I thought you didn't want to. That's why I didn't say anything. I thought you weren't interested."

"Course I want to, you idiot. I spend half my wanking time imagining fucking you in front of the mirror so you can see."

"You never said."

"Well. It's not like we've been massively great at the whole, you know, defining what this is thing. We're still not great at it now."

"It's not a business arrangement anymore," Draco says. 

"Well, no. And this morning you said you'd break up with me if I bought that shirt."

Whole lifetimes seem to have lived and died in the time since they were in the shop with Heathen. 

"So," Draco says. "What now?"

"I think you take me away for a long weekend to Scotland," Harry says. "And we have a nice time, and we talk. And then we decide what we are."

"What happens if we're not on the same page?"

"I don't know," Harry says. "We compromise."

"Harry Potter, compromising."

Harry rolls his eyes. "Draco Malfoy, compromising."

"Wonders will never cease."

Harry sticks his tongue out at him. 

Draco lets out a breath. "Come back here," he says, and Harry flops down onto the mattress again, and curls into Draco's side. "What now?"

"I think we lie here for a bit," Harry says. "And then we eat the iced buns I got us in M&S, and you can tell me how and when you'd like me to fuck you."

"Right," Draco says, caught for a moment on the last part. "All right."

"Cool," Harry says, and kisses him.


	15. Chapter 15

"You're late," Draco says reprovingly. 

"Not really," Harry says. 

Draco has been trying not to stare at the clock for a good, solid 25 minutes now. Harry's late. 

"Late," Draco says, and opens the door so that Harry can come in. He eyes Harry's bags with concern. "That's, uh-- my mother tends to travel with a lot of things too."

"Well," Harry says, piling his things up in Draco's entrance hall. "You know how important clothes are to me."

Draco makes a face. It's possible he's dreaming. It's possible that he's made up this whole thing with Harry, right back to the night in the club where he and Harry met. Maybe right now he's asleep in bed, just dreaming all of this. It's a possibility. 

Harry clearly takes pity on him. "It's just some stuff," he says, which is about as clear as mud. 

"Right," Draco says. "Would you like some tea before we leave?"

Harry looks at him. "Do you want some?"

"Tea is always nice." It's been a long day. Draco's still got a couple of things to do to Ginny Weasley's wards, so he'd spent all yesterday layering some complex charms and it hadn't gone well. He'd had to push back yesterday afternoon's appointment 'til this morning, which meant that he's behind, and he's had to call in the support of his on-call House Elves to finish packing his belongings. They've been instructed to clean his Scottish house from top to bottom too, even though they're on a retainer and come in once a week to look after it. 

"Hmm," Harry says. "How's your day been?"

"Busy," Draco says, and he leads the way down the hall to the kitchen. He sees Sophy the House Elf dart out of the way, because not only has he had to call in extra support for Scotland, it's also their day to clean his London flat. He nods at her as he passes, but she darts out of the way, pink cheeked. It tends to be part of the contract that they stay out of the way of guests, mostly because a lot of Draco's parents' peers preferred that their spotless houses be attributed to them and not to a cleaning contract with one of the few House Elf companies that guarantee fair pay and holidays and no requirement to iron one’s fingers for forgetting to put away the washing up. 

"Right," Harry says. "Is, uh, turning Ron blue always on your to-do list, or was today just a special occasion?"

"Oh, he visited then?" Draco reaches for the kettle. "I always like to test the wards very thoroughly."

"You turned Ron blue."

"Technically," Draco says, "I didn't turn Ron Weasley blue. Ron Weasley turned himself blue by violating the wards at his sister's house."

"By ringing the doorbell," Harry says. 

"Semantics," Draco says, busying himself with the teapot and spooning out tea. 

"Is he, um, going to be blue for long?"

"Not long, no," Draco says. "About 48 hours. Give or take."

"Draco—"

"In my defence," Draco says, "I always show the capabilities of my charms to my clients, and Miss Weasley was aware of this when we agreed to user testing."

"Blue."

"Quite easy to spot if someone’s blue, I always think," Draco says. And if they’re not easily deterred and they return once more to the fold, then the charms get progressively worse. I believe Miss Weasley should have informed Ronald of this by now."

Harry rolls his eyes. "Monster," he says, but it sounds mostly affectionate. He leans his elbows on the counter, lazily casual in Draco’s space. Draco feels quite warm inside. 

"Miss Weasley has the counter charm," Draco says. "If she hasn’t turned him back then I believe that’s for the Weasleys to sort out amongst themselves."

"Seems fitting," Harry says. "Did Ginny tell you anything else about me while you were hanging around and helping her exact sibling revenge?"

He sounds, Draco thinks, like he’s fishing. Draco prepares the milk jug and the sugar bowl, even though neither of them take sugar. A good host always provides a range. There are some biscuits in the tin that he can arrange onto a plate. "Like what?"

"I don’t know," Harry says. He does know, Draco can tell. 

Draco offers Harry a biscuit. "I’m there to do a job," he says finally. 

"I know." Harry eats his biscuit all in one go. 

"Are you looking for gossip?"

"No," Harry says. He takes another biscuit. "Look, it’s nothing. I just wondered if, I don’t know."

"I think she thinks you and I could be friends," Draco says. He and Ginny Weasley haven’t exactly been sitting down for conversations since their last awkward cup of tea. Draco is having weird, kinky sex with Ginny’s ex. Harry is a member of their family, blood tie be damned, and Draco doesn’t want to hear any more accidental divulgences of information about how Harry tried too hard and ran Ginny off. It’s a strange enough situation as it is.

"Hmm," Harry says. "I think she thinks I want to sleep with you."

Draco glances at him. He’s given up all pretence at just having tea and is instead buttering thin slices of bread for tiny cucumber sandwiches. "Why would she think that?"

"Because I do," Harry says. "And because she got me off once, talking about you."

"Right," Draco says, cutting the crusts off. "Of course."

"Just before we broke up," Harry goes on. "And when I say _just_ , I really mean, you know, the day we broke up."

"All right," Draco says. 

"I think she was trying to make a point."

"Which was?"

"That I was still obsessed with you, I don’t know. That school was a long time ago and it was about time I faced up to how I felt about men in general, and you in particular."

Draco nods. He cuts the sandwiches into tiny quarters and arranges them neatly on a plate on the tea tray. "And how did that go?"

"I came all over her hand," Harry says. "Quite quickly, too, if I’m honest. I should probably be embarrassed."

"Right," Draco says. "It’s really quite surprising she even let me in her house."

"You’re not why we broke up. We broke up because we wanted different things, and because we were so fucking young when we got together, and because I wanted to just, like, I don’t know, give her all this stuff that I was feeling and she didn’t want any of it. The point proving was just an additional extra."

Draco hovers the tea tray, and together they follow it down the hall to the sun room. It’s not really sunny outside but it makes sense to enjoy the view. "Strange kind of additional extra," he says finally, waiting for Harry to sit down before he sits down next to him on the sofa. 

"She’s a forthright kind of a person," Harry says. "Voldemort tried to kill her once. He succeeded at killing her brother. She thinks life’s too short."

"Fair," Draco says, and pours them both tea. "This point proving…" he trails off. 

Harry grins at him. "Pretty tame compared to what we actually like. But she basically talked about us fighting and then having sex. At Hogwarts, actually, which is the least sexy part because quite frankly, I think about Hogwarts and all I do is have nightmares about everybody I love dying, but apparently I could put that aside and still come at the thought of having sex with you."

Draco’s hand stutters as he hands Harry his tea cup. "Harry."

"Don’t feel sorry for me," Harry says. "I’m fine and I’m alive."

"The nightmares are just an added extra?"

"A special bonus," Harry agrees. "Saved the world etc etc, lost everyone."

Draco swallows. "If I’m supposed to laugh at any of this, will you just tell me?"

Harry’s smile is lopsided. "Will do."

"Do you want to talk about any of it?"

"I’d like to talk about how thinking about you made me come. We’re about to have a dirty weekend away. I’d rather not ruin it with nightmares."

Draco bumps the back of his hand into Harry’s. "It wouldn’t ruin it. If you had nightmares."

"Not very sexy."

"Neither’s half the stuff we do, if we think about it objectively. It doesn’t ruin it."

Harry just looks at him. "Everyone wants to fix me so that I’m not broken."

"We’re all broken." 

"Indeed," Harry says. He takes some of his tea, and follows it up with a tiny sandwich. "Would you really not mind? If there were nightmares?"

"No," Draco says. "Of course I wouldn’t." 

"Because sometimes there are. And sometimes I can’t sleep at all."

"I’m really, really scared of fire," Draco says, because apparently he likes to make everything about him. 

"I can understand that." Harry reaches over and slips his hand into Draco’s. "I’m all right, you know."

"Forever changed, but all right," Draco says, which is how he really thinks about himself. 

"Indeed," Harry says again. "Hermione did make me talk to someone, you know. A couple of different people. About the residual trauma, apparently."

Draco’s never talked to anyone. He just gradually closed himself off from the world until it was just him by himself, and a set of glamours through which he tried to interact with a world he wasn’t a part of. "Did they help?"

"A bit," Harry says. "But really, you just carry it with you and try to find ways to make it hurt less."

They’re still holding hands. "Is this one of the ways that makes it hurt less?"

"No," Harry says, and Draco doesn’t know whether to be hurt by that or not, but then Harry speaks again. "I think when I was with Ginny, we were both desperately trying to put everything behind us and create something normal when everything around us had been something other than normal for so long. And if we could have managed it, maybe that would have worked, but I don’t think the world’s like that. We’re not here to fix each other. I couldn’t fix Ginny and she sure as fuck couldn’t fix me. I just tried to make her happy so that I’d be happy and it never worked. But I come here and I see you and you’re not trying to Spellotape me back together. I think you were just trying to find a way to be happy. Or give yourself what you needed. I just think, I don’t know, it worked because underneath it we wanted to make each other happy. For some degree of happy that’s about orgasms. I wanted to give you something that you wanted and that made you happy and I got something out of that too. I don’t think that’s a bad basis to build something on."

"Even though what I want is dirty as fuck."

"It is," Harry agrees. His hand is hot in Draco’s. "Me and Ginny didn’t break up yesterday, you know. It wasn’t even this year. We’ve been together and we’ve been apart and it’s been so long we’ve cycled through everything. Christmas and Halloween and birthdays and summer and other people’s weddings. She’s my family and I love her, but I don’t want to be with her anymore. I didn’t even before we broke up, and she sure as anything doesn’t want to be with me."

"What are you saying?"

"I’m saying, I think I’d like to be with you."

"Harry…" Draco’s heart is pounding. 

"I want to keep doing this. I love doing this stuff with you. I don’t think I’ve ever been this turned on other than when I’m with you."

"It’s filthy," Draco says, a little dazed. "Really filthy."

"It is," Harry agrees. "And it’s _fun_."

"Fun’s a relative term."

"Is it not fun for you?" Harry helps himself to another cucumber sandwich. Draco suspects he’s doing his best not to look like he’s concerned. 

Draco shrugs a shoulder. "I don’t know if I’d describe it as fun. Important, maybe. It means a lot."

Harry pours them both some more tea. Draco’s remains insipid, the way he likes it, and Harry’s is strong like it’s been stewed in a puddle for a long time. "That first time I saw you," he says, "in that back room. I didn’t know it was you."

"When did you find out?" Draco had been so certain at the time that Harry could see through glamours. 

Harry reaches down and into the pocket of his jeans. He gets out the coin that he’s been using to contact Draco, and a second one, but this one has a little hole in it and is attached to a door key. "My charms are only mediocre," he says. "Not like yours."

Draco reaches for the coins. The one they’ve been using to send messages to each other is warm from where it’s been sitting in Harry’s pocket. The second one, the keyring, is hot. Draco glances at him. 

"I’d been doing this work for the Muggle Outreach Centre," Harry says. "Before I went to work for them, just stupid stuff really. Trying to track magical signatures and stuff. Because sometimes we go and see primary schools and we wanted to make sure that when we went outside to the playing fields to play our games, we didn’t, you know, lose anyone."

"I could have made you something."

"Yes, well, I didn’t know to ask you."

"You do now."

Harry smiles. "I know," he says. "Anyway, I was testing some stuff out. Ways to see if someone was out of sight or in sight, you know? And I made this." He pokes at the keyring. "Tells me if you’re near."

Draco looks at the keyring, and then back up at Harry. 

"I didn’t expect to ever actually see you," he says. "I was just looking around for things that I had at home that belonged to other people, and seeing if I could tie the charm to them that way, and, well—" to his credit, he’s looking pretty embarrassed. "I still have your wand."

"That is a terrible charm for looking after small children," Draco says. "Why don’t you just get them to high five a picture of or something, and use it as a magical register?"

"We do that _now_ ," Harry says. "Just because you’re better than me."

Draco runs his fingers over the keyring. It’s so warm. 

"Creepy, right?" Harry says. "At least that’s what Hermione said. And it would never work for an actual class of Muggle kids, so I retired it and, you know, made it into a keyring. Like I said. I never actually expected to see you."

"Have you made anything else like this?"

"No," Harry says. "Thought I’d limit my obsessive tendencies to just you. Habit of a lifetime."

"Indeed," Draco says. "Was this when you were still with Miss Weasley?"

"It’s becoming clearer and clearer why she thought wanking me off and talking about you was going to yield a positive result, right?"

"Quite clear," Draco says. "So, you’re in this back room, having sex with a stranger, and you’ve got your keyring in your pocket—"

"Yes," Harry says. 

"Why do you even carry a key? I can update your wards for you."

"I like the key. When I was little I thought freedom was holding the key that locked the door."

Draco glances at him again. "So, you’re in this back room."

"Yes," Harry says. "And I look over and there’s this guy giving blow jobs. And I didn’t recognise you at all. Not at all."

"Because I looked like someone else."

"Probably. And I had my dick in this guy’s mouth. I was busy. Perfectly acceptable blow job, I suppose."

"I’d do better."

"You would," Harry agrees. "You’re very good at blow jobs."

Something satisfactory settles in his stomach. "Yes?"

"Yes," Harry says. "Anyway, I come, he leans back and I put my hand in my pocket and there you were, vibrating. So you had to be pretty close. Unless my charms were completely fucked up."

"It’s a rubbish charm."

"You can make me a better one."

Draco does his best attempt at not glowing. "So, you just narrowed it down until you figured out I was the one on my knees, right?"

"No, I looked at you and I knew. Glamours don’t disguise your mannerisms. I’ve been watching you for years. Or I had. I’d mostly retired that habit because you weren’t in my eye line all that frequently."

Draco looks at him. "You think you want to be with me," he says carefully, focusing on the key parts of the last few minutes. 

"Yes," Harry says. "I really do."

"Drink your tea," Draco says. "When we get to Scotland we can play Quidditch."

"A one on one game of catch the snitch," Harry says. "Kinky."

Draco rolls his eyes. "Child." His hand is still in Harry’s. He isn’t entirely sure when it was he started feeling this way about Harry. There’s been way too long hating him. It’s all sort of rolling into one. 

"Are you ready to go?"

"In a minute," Draco says. "I’ve never taken anyone else there, you know."

"Scotland?"

"Yes. My father liked to hide his money in things. Objects. And it turns out, places. We made a big song and dance about selling the Manor but it turns out we had all these other places. My mother hates Scotland. We barely ever went. I never wanted to go by myself, after."

"But you’re taking me," Harry says. 

"Well," Draco says. "I thought you might like it. You can play Quidditch."

"Catch the snitch," Harry says. "Are you going to tell me what you think about me and you?"

Draco looks at him. "Not yet," he says. "Not until we get there and we’ve talked." He waits a beat, trying to lighten the mood. "And until I’ve found out what’s in all those bags in the hall."

"Cake, mostly," Harry says, which may or may not be a lie. Draco shivers. "And a well packed broom. And, you know. Other stuff."

"Enlightening."

"Just so I’m clear. You’re not, you know, generally averse to the idea of me and you."

"No," Draco says, and his heart’s pounding. "Have you finished? Shall we just go?"

Harry looks hopeful, and mostly happy, and almost relaxed. It’s nice. 

"Okay," he says. "Let’s go."


	16. Chapter 16

Scotland is grey and cold and familiar in the way the chill settles down into Draco’s bones right from the moment his portkey lands them in the castle grounds. 

"Nice," Harry says, looking around and nodding. "Small. Easy to maintain."

The castle used to belong to lairds, and was built at some point in the sixteenth century. It still belonged to lairds right up until the point it started to belong to Draco’s father, and Draco can’t pretend that it probably was all entirely above board. His father was unscrupulous and fiercely acquisitive and Draco had loved him. Growing up, he thought his father was the best person in the world. Even now, knowing the truth, it’s hard to kick that memory of childhood idolatry. 

"There used to be peacocks," Draco says. The house elves had brought their belongings, so it’s just the two of them, both holding on to a scarf Draco had keyed up to bring them to his door. Flying would take too long and apparition brings with it risks if the end destination is unfamiliar. Draco had practiced his wards on this house; it’s not exactly unplottable, but it’s certainly difficult to find, and if you’re a local Muggle, difficult to remember even exists. "My father loved peacocks."

Harry makes a small humming noise that Draco assumes means _I’m unsurprised_. He doesn’t push it. 

"Come on," Draco says. "The sooner we get inside, the sooner we can go outside and fly." That old familiar anticipation is coursing through him, the memory of how exciting it used to be to be able to play Quidditch regularly. There might only be the two of them playing, but Draco hasn’t flown with anyone else in years. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed it.

Harry grins. He’s still looking around, at the long driveway back towards the gate, and the many castle turrets and the brick wall of the terrace that peeks around the side of the castle. If they went around there, they’d see the rest of the cultivated grounds laid out beneath them, down to the empty owlery and the other empty spaces that the lairds had used to hire falconers to manage. Beyond the grounds to the right is the sea, and to the left, the woods and the Quidditch pitch. He’d done some of his best work on that Quidditch pitch, hiding it from view, creating it so that if you flew high enough you could see the sea. 

He’d never played on it, not once. 

"This is just like the place I grew up," Harry says, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Same size and everything. God, can you imagine what my uncle would have done in a place that had _dungeons_."

"I’d rather not," Draco says. The doors open beneath his touch, the locks whirring and turning at his hand. The doors swing open and they’re in the huge entrance hall leading to a large burgundy-carpeted stairwell. Their bags are piled up neatly in the centre of the room. "I just need to go and get changed before we fly. Do you need to?"

"I can fly like this," Harry says. "Do you mind if I explore?"

"Not at all," Draco says. "Help yourself."

Harry grins, and disappears off to find his way around. 

Upstairs, Draco’s bedroom is warm and neat with a fire lit. Everything is clean and tidy, from the neatly pulled back curtains around the four poster to his toiletries on the dresser. A lot of the furniture dates back to the lairds, but in-between are a lot of the surplus from the manor. It’s a strange hodge-lodge of styles, magical and non-magical in origin, but Draco’s focus, the rare times he’s stayed here, has been the Quidditch pitch. 

He finds his Quidditch kit in the wardrobe and changes into it quickly, and with slightly less precision than normal. His heart’s pounding as he grabs his broom, neatly polished in preparation, and the little case of practice snitches. 

Harry wants to _be with him_. 

He hurries out of the bedroom and back down the stairs. "Potter," he calls, and Harry emerges from the direction of the kitchens, broom in hand. "Are you ready?"

"To beat you? Of course."

Draco rolls his eyes. "Times have changed."

"Nah," Harry says. "World still turns. I’m still a better flyer than you."

Draco pokes him in the side. "We’ll see about that." 

The march to the Quidditch pitch takes them along the length of the terrace and through a stone archway and past a weird little dilapidated museum that had used to be a part of the castle grounds before his father had shown up and turfed everyone out. There are still weird taxidermied animals in there, but Draco has his limits, and it’s not like he’s spent that much time here. 

"Don’t ask," Draco says, as Harry makes a questioning face at a giraffe staring out of one of the filthy windows. 

"Noted," Harry says, and they up the pace as they enter the wood and see the Quidditch pitch coming up in front of them. 

Harry throws Draco a look of sheer exhilaration, and then sets off at a run for the pitch, broom in hand. He’s kicking off and soaring up into the air practically before Draco’s even putting down the little case of snitches he’s brought with him. 

"Fuck it," Draco says, and unclasps the case, letting it fall open without much fanfare. He’s already kicking off from the ground, throwing the charm to free one of the snitches behind him as he flies up into the air. He doesn’t look where it’s gone or attempt to follow it. Not yet. 

Harry’s already over by one of the sets of hoops, turning over and over in the air like he’s being buffeted by the wind. Except there is no real wind to speak of, and Harry just looks stupidly happy. Draco hasn’t been on a broom in a while, not like this, but it’s all coming back. 

"Oi, Potter," he yells. "Get your arse over here and catch me."

Harry just snorts a laugh and angles his broom towards Draco. They chase each other around the pitch for ages, the wind in their hair, their Quidditch clothes blowing out behind them. They loop-the-loop and Harry attempts some kind of bastardised Wronski Feint that probably would have been a lot easier before they started approaching middle age, or at least stopped practicing. They swoop down towards the ground and back up again, first Harry in the lead, then Draco, and Draco is actually in the middle of _whooping_ when he spies the snitch, just behind Harry’s head. 

Harry sees him looking, turning on his broom, but by then the snitch is off again, heading towards Draco like for once his luck is in. It darts away at the last minute though, and Draco rushes after it, Harry on his tail. The wind rushes past him and Draco has missed this, missed the competition and the flying and the snitch, he’s missed it so, so much. If he could just— he reaches out, trying to catch the snitch in his fist. 

Harry grabs onto his trouser leg, and the snitch takes the opportunity to dart away. 

"Cheat," Draco howls, but Harry just laughs at him, unrepentant. 

He doesn’t let go of Draco’s leg, tugging him closer. 

"The snitch," Draco says, but Harry’s grin is wide and bright and true. 

Draco doesn’t think twice about it, leaning in so he can cup the back of Harry’s head in his hand and pull him closer in for a kiss. The brooms shiver in the breeze, but Harry just kisses him back, one hand curving around Draco’s waist to hold him near. He kisses Harry hungrily, like they’re not fifty feet up in the air, like there isn’t years and years of history between them. Like Draco wants to kiss him, and Harry wants to kiss him back. He tastes the Scottish chill on Harry’s lips, the excitement and the anticipation and the adrenaline of flying together, and he wants more. He chases the taste, chases Harry for another fucking kiss, but then he’s hit on the elbow by the snitch. 

"The snitch just hit me," he says, but Harry laughs at him, pulling away, skin flushed. 

"It’s like you. Likes to be the centre of attention."

Harry’s already flying away when Draco comes up with a witty rejoinder, and by then the only thing to do is fly after him, searching the sky for the little golden wings of the snitch. 

They fly for another hour, chasing the snitch until Draco catches it in his fist, victorious. 

Harry, laughing, waits until they’ve almost landed before he pushes Draco off his broom. "Cheat."

"Fair and square," Draco says, the odd little fluttering of the snitch’s wings tickling his palms. "Not my fault I’m better than you."

"Rematch," Harry demands.

Draco rolls his eyes, fastening the little snitch back into its case. "Tomorrow," he says. "Let’s go inside and get warm."

Something shifts a little in Harry’s face, and Draco shivers in anticipation. He recognises that expression. He loves that expression. 

"Get warm, huh," Harry says. "I’ve got a cock that needs warming."

"I’l do it," Draco says, like that was ever in question. 

"Course you will," Harry says. "Because I’m telling you to."

The mood’s shifted, and Draco wants to melt into it, wants to go down on his knees right now and get his mouth around Harry’s cock so that it’s clear to all concerned that he’s Harry’s to command. 

"I was going to wait until we were back inside," Harry says. "But I think you might be doing your best impression of being hungry for cock."

"I am," Draco agrees, because his mouth is actually watering, and his dick is already chubbed up and fat in his Quidditch clothes, jutting out and barely making a difference because he’s so fucking small. "Let me suck you. I’ll suck you here."

"Right here on the Quidditch pitch," Harry says. "Where anyone could see."

The Quidditch pitch is almost as invisible to the world as the house, possibly more so because it’s got Draco’s more recent charms work in it, but that doesn’t stop them being right in the middle of a wide open space, even if the trees do surround the edges of the pitch. Draco glances around them. 

"Oh, but you like that, don’t you?" Harry goes on, carefully putting his broom down and taking Draco’s from him, putting it down next to his. "My little exhibitionist piglet, always wanting to get your cock out to show the world."

Draco’s heart pounds. 

"Don’t you?" Harry says, already undoing his flies and pushing his trousers down so that his cock springs free. "Come on, Draco, don’t pretend to be shy now. Show me how tiny that cock is."

Draco undoes his trousers and pushes them down to his knees. His stupid little cock bobs in the fucking breeze. 

"I’d forgotten how little it was," Harry smirks. "Totally fucking pointless. No, don’t touch it. Kneel down. Suck a real cock."

Draco drops to his knees. His hands go straight to Harry’s hips and he opens his mouth to suck on the head of Harry’s cock. His skin’s warm, probably from the exercise because there’s nothing particularly warm about the weather. 

"Anyone could see you," Harry tells him, as Draco focuses his attention on the tip. "We’re on a Quidditch pitch. Imagine if there was a team practice. Fuck, imagine if we were at school. Everyone seeing you like this. You should be so ashamed."

Draco doesn’t think about Hogwarts. He doesn’t think about who he was when he was there, or the choices that he made that helped things reach their conclusion. He doesn’t think about his fucking superiority complex or the smug swagger of a boy who thought he was too good for his surroundings and the people around him. He doesn’t let himself. But he’ll think about this, him on his knees for Harry Potter in the middle of the Quidditch pitch, the cold seeping in through his knees, his mouth around Harry’s cock. He’ll think about this as he groans around him, as the taste of Harry leaks against his tongue. 

"Only good for being a hole, aren’t you?" Harry goes on, stroking Draco’s hair behind his ear. "I bet if there was a Quidditch practice here now, you’d go down on their knees for the whole fucking team, wouldn’t you?" He answers his own question. "Course you would. Because what are you?"

Draco’s mouth is busy, so he can’t answer. 

"A come rag," Harry says. "Just something to be used."

That goes straight to Draco’s cock. He shouldn’t like this so much but he does. He _does_. 

"They’d come all over you like you were nothing, wouldn’t they, Piglet? Just use you and then go off and play Quidditch like you weren’t even there, and you’d love that."

Draco would.

"Going to come all over you," Harry goes on. "Going to come all over you face and then we can go inside and you can warm my cock. Go down on your knees and keep my cock in your mouth so I can make use of my piglet’s hole. How’d you like that?"

Draco makes a sharp sound around Harry’s cock. 

"Yeah," Harry says. "Thought you’d like that. You getting filthy. Dirty Piglet." He pulls out of Draco’s mouth. "Wank me off, Piglet, and make me come all over your face."

Draco goes for it, one hand around Harry’s cock and the other on his balls. Harry’s going to make a mess of him, just like he deserves, and he wants it. He wants it so badly. Harry’s not that far off coming, and Draco’s on his knees in the middle of a Quidditch pitch, he could come right now just from the shame of it. 

"Dirty Piglet," Harry says. "Just a hole, aren’t you? Just a rag for my come. Don’t think I’m cleaning you up afterwards. Would you clean up a come rag?"

"No," Draco says, and Harry’s so close, Draco can tell. His hips rock up. Draco moves his hand faster, opening his mouth. He doesn’t want to miss a taste of Harry’s come. Draco’s such a fucking come-hungry piglet. 

"What are you?"

"Come-hungry piglet," Draco says, although that’s not the right answer. "A hole. A come rag."

And Harry comes, just like that, shooting his load over Draco’s face and his mouth and even into his hair. 

Draco lifts his palm to his face and smears Harry’s come across his mouth, messing himself up. He can’t bear to think about what he looks like, cock out, come smeared, grass stained and sweaty. 

Harry steps back, tucking his cock back into his trousers. He reaches down for his broomstick. He’s flushed red and is a little out of breath. He sets off back towards the castle, and Draco’s left to stumble to his feet and practically run after him, gathering up his broom and the snitch case on the way. Harry doesn’t look back at him and Draco’s cocklet is hanging out of his trousers and he really isn’t anything other than a filthy piglet. A dirty, shameful piglet with a useless little stiffy. 

Once they’re inside the castle, and Draco’s closed the doors after them so that the locks whirr into position, Harry looks at him with disdain. 

"Should put you on the lead," Harry says. "If that’s the only way to make you remember that piglets should be on their knees."

Draco goes down onto his hands and knees. His cocklet hangs down between his legs, his trousers hanging awkwardly off his hips. He drops his head. 

"Wank yourself off," Harry says. "And don’t clean up afterwards." He reaches for a wand, and two seconds later there’s a mirror in the middle of the hallway, a free standing one that’s angled down towards Draco. 

"Harry—"

"Can’t have you not being able to see what you look like," Harry says. "You’ve got my come all over your face and you’re masturbating all over the floor again."

"Masturbating my cocklet," Draco says. 

"Oh yes," Harry says lazily. "I’d forgotten for a second how fucking useless that dicklet of yours was. Useless and tiny."

"I love it," Draco says. "Love being this dirty."

"I know," Harry says, and disdain spills from every syllable. "If this is what you’re like just wanking on your floor, what are you going to be like when you get to stick that useless cock into a cake? You’re going to fuck it, aren’t you? Get that icing everywhere. Show me how dirty you really are. How much of a piglet you really are."

"I am a piglet," Draco says, fucking his stupid little cock into his curled fingers. He’s too small to fist. "Useless cake-fucking piglet."

"Put your face in the other cake," Harry goes on. "Eat all that sweet stuff, as much of it as you want. Get it everywhere. Maybe I’ll make you come on it first, then you can eat it."

"Love sweets," Draco says, panting. In the mirror he’s a flushed, panting mess. Come’s in his hair and on his cheeks and lips, smeared across his skin. There’s stains on his shirt collar. "Greedy piglet."

"Greedy piglet," Harry agrees. "Greedy soft piglet."

Draco comes, right there on the floor in the castle entrance, like a dirty little piglet.

He’s made such a mess. 

Harry clicks his disappointment in the back of his throat, and Draco hangs his head, shoulders shaking.

"Follow me," Harry’s already walking away. "And don’t forget that piglets crawl."

And Draco, his cocklet hanging between his legs, shame burning through his body, follows Harry down the hall on his hands and knees.


	17. Chapter 17

Harry can’t have had much time to find his way around Draco’s house, but he must have made some fairly quick headway because he leads Draco to a room in the far corner that Draco barely remembers seeing before, let alone ever sitting in. It’s carpeted in red, with long windows looking out over the grounds and towards the deserted owlery, out towards the Quidditch pitch. The sofas are old fashioned and can’t have come from the manor, so they’re probably left over from the laird’s time here. They’re certainly staid enough. There’s a lot of dark brown. Despite its clear lack of use, the room smells clean and looks relatively fresh, which is another point in the favour of the House Elf company Draco picked entirely at random to take care of his houses. 

The carpet’s rough against Draco’s hands and his trousers are more of an inconvenience than anything else. Nevertheless, Harry leads Draco over to one of the sofa’s, and settles himself down against the arm. There’s a copy of _Quidditch Through The Ages_ resting on the arm, and unless Harry’s had time to go through the boxed up remains of Draco’s childhood that are hiding in one of the upstairs rooms, he’s brought that with him from home. 

"My cock needs warming," Harry says dismissively, and settles himself down with his cock out. He opens the book on the arm of the chair and stops paying attention to Draco, which is exactly how it should be. 

Draco crawls closer, in between Harry’s legs, and leans in so he can take Harry’s cock in his mouth. It’s a solid weight against his tongue, not quite bumping against the back of his throat, but getting there. He tilts his jaw up a little, trying not to groan. This is where he wants to be, on his knees, a hole, providing a service. 

"Don’t move," Harry chides, without looking up from his book. 

Draco hums, closing his eyes. He settles where he kneels, aware of the discomfort where he hasn’t got comfortable, where the carpet presses against his knees. His back’s not quite at the right angle. He’s been in plenty of uncomfortable positions in his life, and he’s used to them. And all of those discomforts never came with the added benefit of being used, of having Harry Potter’s cock in his mouth, so he almost trembles with it, with need and desire and want. He catalogues each of the feelings in turn, all of the points where he touches the floor, all of the points where the floor touches him. Harry’s cock a solid weight in his mouth, spit sliding down his chin at the the size of him. 

He’s a cock warmer. His purpose is to be on his knees, to be used, to be a hole. Nothing more. A hole. 

He breathes around Harry’s cock, and lets himself be. 

*****

It’s a while later when Harry strokes Draco’s hair behind his ear. "Piglet," he says, and maybe he’s said it before, Draco can’t tell. Opening his eyes is a wrench. 

"There you go," Harry says. "Such a good piglet."

Draco whines, and Harry nudges him back, and off his cock. Spit slides down his chin, his face already a mess of smeared come. 

"Come on," Harry says. "Up you get, come lay up here for a minute before we go and get you cleaned up."

Draco clambers awkwardly to his feet and onto the sofa, resting his messy face against Harry’s thigh. He’s still got his little cock out. 

Harry strokes his hair. Draco likes it when Harry does that, when he’s petted like this, when he gets touched and stroked and can just rest until he’s back to himself. His throat feels a bit sore and his jaw aches. 

"I thought we could have a bath," Harry says. "A place this big, there’s got to be a bath big enough for two. My aunt and uncle had one of those corner baths, you know? It was beige. They had a whole beige bathroom suite. Pot pourri bowl to match and everything."

Draco’s not exactly sure what Harry’s going on about, but maybe he doesn’t have to. It’s just nice hearing his voice. 

"What’s the point of pot pourri, anyway? But my aunt loved those air fresheners, she had them everywhere. Everything smelled like a really bad gift shop." There’s a pause. "Did you know you’ve got a gift shop here? I found it round the back. Your dad really did buy a going concern, didn’t he? There’s still tea towels for sale. Bit old fashioned but, you know, usable."

"I haven’t been here much," Draco says. 

"Just sorted out the Quidditch pitch."

"Yes," Draco says. "But my dad wasn’t dead then."

Harry keeps on stroking Draco’s hair. "I’m sorry."

"You’re not," Draco says. "I wouldn’t be either if I were you. But he was my dad."

"He was," Harry says. "And you love him."

"Yes," Draco says. Grief still weighs heavy in his chest. Maybe it always will. Maybe one of these days he’ll stop feeling it for his mother prematurely, and remember that she’s still alive, even if she’s had to leave to prove it. 

"What would you do if you lived here?"

"Get a falcon," Draco says. "Bring Estelle to live in the owlery. She’d like it here."

"Yes," Harry says. "What else?"

"Fly more."

"I’d missed flying," Harry says. His thumb brushes Draco’s jaw. "I didn’t want to do it all the time, like Gin, but it fees like nothing else."

"Like you’re free," Draco says. 

"Yes," Harry says, and they’re quiet for a while, Harry’s fingertips stroking Draco’s jaw. "Come on. Let’s go find a bath that’s big enough for two."

Draco takes a minute or so to get to his feet. He still feels a little fuzzy, like he’s just woken up from a very long nap. Harry closes his copy of _Quidditch Through The Ages_ and rests his hand on Draco’s waist. 

"You know this place better than me. Find us a bathroom."

"It won’t be beige," Draco says, proving to himself if not Harry that he’s been a worthy participant in their recent conversation. 

"I imagine not," Harry says. 

Upstairs there’s an old bathroom with one of those flushes that hang from a chain above the toilet. There’s also a large, claw-foot bath. There’s no bubble bath but — again — Harry’s come prepared. He drops a little pellet into the water and it fizzes with lavender-scented joy, little stars and petals and bubbles erupting through the water as the bath fills. 

"Where were you hiding that?" Draco asks. "Did you take it out to the Quidditch pitch?"

"Nope," Harry says. "It was with my book."

"Ah," Draco says, imagining Harry sneaking around his house whilst Draco was upstairs getting changed, putting his plans in order. He straightens, rolling his shoulders. He reaches for Harry, hand to his shoulder. "Let me get you undressed."

Harry’s smile is crooked. "If you’d like," he says. Is that another piece of the jigsaw puzzle? There’s something about Draco wanting to look after Harry that’s supposed to tell him something, but he just can’t figure out what it is. 

"If _you’d_ like," Draco says.

"I’d like."

Draco smiles then. He loves doing this, really getting to look after Harry. He starts with his jumper, following it with his shirt, and then sitting him down so he can unlace his boots and take off his socks. He follows it with his unbuttoned trousers and then his underwear, until Harry’s naked. He’s half hard, but doesn’t look particularly like he’s interested in following it up just yet. He doesn’t get into the bath, instead urging Draco to get undressed too. Draco’s clothing is more formal, with buttons across the collar bone and elsewhere. He undoes them himself, but at Harry’s urging, and drapes them over a chair back. He likes bathrooms that have chairs, and if he had it his way, they all would. This one is a bit rickety and old, but then most of the leftover furniture is. They’d been down on their luck, the previous incumbents. Maybe his father did them a favour in ridding them of their ancestral pile, but Draco can’t imagine that they saw it like that. 

Naked, he waits. 

"Get in," Harry says, and so Draco does, settling himself in the warm water, surrounded by little stars and petals and bubbles. The water is swirled with different colours, and when Harry climbs in and sits in between Draco’s legs, it doesn’t disrupt the pattern of swirls for more than a second. 

Harry arranges himself so he’s comfortable, his back to Draco’s chest. 

Draco’s never had anything like this in his whole entire life. 

"Were you all right with that?" Harry asks, turning a little so that water splashes. "What we just did?"

"Yes," Draco says, because he was. He thrives on it. He’s been fantasising about being used for so long that the reality feels like a thousand times bigger and better. 

"What would happen if you weren’t?"

"I don’t know," Draco says. He thinks about it for a second. "Maybe I’d just stand up and go and make a cup of tea. Tell you I wasn’t particularly interested."

"Would you?" Harry tilts his head up. 

"I would," Draco says, although he’s not entirely certain he’s clear where his own lines are, at least not yet. He doesn’t feel scared of them, though, and he’s been scared of most things his entire adult life. 

"You wouldn’t, I don’t know, go along with something that you thought I wanted but you didn’t?"

Draco hums. "Depends," he says finally. He runs his fingers up and down Harry’s wet bicep. His arm has a faded grey dark mark on it, not like Harry’s. 

"On what?"

"On whether it made you happy and if it hurt me. If I don’t care and it makes you happy, well, I’d probably just do it. What makes you ask?"

"By the end, everything I wanted to do for Ginny was wrong. She didn’t want it, and I wanted to give her stuff, and it was a mess. We got hurt. I felt hurt. She was trying not to hurt me and I got hurt anyway."

"That sounds… not ideal."

"Like I said, we were two different people at the end of it." 

Draco thinks back to talking to Ginny, and what she’d said about the breakdown of her relationship. He keeps stroking Harry’s arm. It’s nice, having him so close, having him sit in the v of his legs, have this almost casual intimacy that Draco’s never, ever hd. 

"Do I give you too much?" Harry asks, and he doesn’t make eye contact. "Do I go too far?"

Draco shakes his head. "No," he says. "You read me really well."

Harry flushes at that. "I feel like it’s right," he says. "I feel like when it’s you and me, what we do, it feels like it’s right."

"That’s because I think it is." Draco leans forward and kisses the top of Harry’s head. There are so many first times in their relationship, and there’s a secret romantic part of him that just wants to store all of them so he can thumb through the memories later and just remember what this feels like. "And I want it to feel like that when you tell me what you need, too."

Harry hums against his chest. "What if I never can?"

"I think you can," Draco says. "I’ve already promised you I’ll do it."

"You won’t want to."

"Well, if I don’t, then maybe I can give you part of it. Or some of it. But I don’t think that’s going to happen."

Harry curls in a little closer. When he speaks again, it’s a little muffled against Draco’s chest. "Why won’t you tell me if you want to be with me?"

"Because I’m terrified you’ll run," Draco says, without putting too much thought into it. He draws a pattern on Harry’s arm with his fingertip, the outline of the dark mark. "I think one day you’ll wake up and you’ll think, _what the fuck am I doing with this fucking pervert_ , and you’ll walk away, and I don’t— I don’t know what to do if that happens."

"I want to try," Harry says stubbornly. "I love what we do. I love all of it. If I haven’t run now, why do you think I’m going to?"

"I don’t know. Because no one stays. Not even my mother."

"Your mum loves you."

"She does," Draco agrees. "She loves me so much that she had to leave the country." It’s true, sadly, and it’s not even an exaggeration. Draco’s failed launch into the marriage mart, her inability to overcome their history to find someone who’d put a value on him… it had broken her in the end. It might have broken Draco too, but there were less people around to notice. Those that he did lay himself open for, they only saw the glamour. 

The only person who even sees more than a part of him is Harry Potter. 

"The things I like to do," Draco says. "The things that make me come."

"They make me come too," Harry says. "And I want this."

Draco, inexplicably, wants to cry. His breath catches in the back of his throat. "I want this too," he says. "I want it so much I’m terrified to ask for it."

"You don’t need to ask for it," Harry says. "I’m offering it to you."

"I’m not—" Draco stops. "It’s not like this all the time. It’s not all me wanting to come. It’s just normal and boring. I make client appointments. I eat toast. I plan out how to fix wards that incompetent people have threatened their homes with. I uncharm charmed objects. I’m bad tempered and I’m so fucking lonely and I’m terrified of that being too much for you. I’m so alone, Harry, and I’ve been alone for years, and if I let that out for even a second it’ll be like a fucking avalanche, and you won’t want to stay for that. Who would?"

Harry shifts in his arms. "When I first saw you," he says, "you were crying out for this. You needed it so desperately it was coming off you in waves. You think I haven’t seen that part of you? You think I don’t know you at all?"

"Harry—"

"I want you to look after me," Harry says, and he turns over, the water coming off him like he’s arising from the deep instead of just kneeling over Draco, hands to the back of the bath behind Draco’s head. "I want you to take care of me. That’s what I’m asking you for."

Draco’s confusion must show on his face, because Harry’s expression tightens. 

"No one ever cared about me at all when I was little," he goes on. "No one gave a shit. I don’t think I ever had a new toy of my own. I can’t remember my parents. I’ve heard my mum dying over and over in my head but I don’t know what it was like to be looked after by them."

Draco attempts to keep his expression neutral at the very idea of hearing his mother die. "I can look after you," he says finally. "I can care about you."

"You don’t understand," Harry says, and his expression is fierce, and terrified. "I want you to look after me like I was little. I want to know what that feels like. I want to be loved."

Draco doesn’t understand. "I can do all of that. It’s fine."

"I mean," Harry says. "I mean I want you to treat me like I’m little. Like, bottles and blankets and whatever else you give babies. I want to know what that feels like, I want to know what that comfort feels like, and I want to not care about anything else in the whole fucking world, and I want to hand that responsibility over to someone else, just for a bit. I want."

The water’s dripping off Harry, tiny lavender-coloured stars and the water in swirls of colour as he holds himself over Draco. 

Draco doesn’t particularly understand, but looking after Harry, whatever that encompasses, that doesn’t sound bad. "I’ll do it," he says. 

Harry’s expression is fierce. "You don’t know what you’re saying yes to."

"I don’t know why I’d say no," Draco says. He runs his hands up Harry’s sides. "Why would you think I’d say no?"

"It’s fucked up," Harry says. "Do you know what you’re saying yes to? I want you to treat me like I’m a little boy."

"All right," Draco says. His head’s spinning a bit. "I’m still doing it. I’m going to look after you."

"Okay," Harry says. "But if we’re doing that, then we’re doing us."

Draco’s heart pounds. "I’ve never— you know I’ve never. There’s just been you. You and those guys from the back room. I’d never even kissed anyone before you."

"I want to be with you," Harry says again. "I want to be with you and it doesn’t matter if you don’t want to do what I’m asking. I don’t care. I just want there to be an _us_."

Draco reaches up and smoothes Harry’s wet hair away from his forehead, so that he can see Harry’s scar. "I’m going to look after you," he says finally. "Whatever you need. And I want there to be an _us_ too."

Harry’s eyes are bright. "Thank fuck," he says, and he closes the difference between them and presses his mouth to Draco’s, kissing him again. "Thank fuck."

Draco might not be sure what Harry’s saying thank you for, but maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe it doesn’t matter at all.


	18. Chapter 18

There appears to be some confusion over where Harry is sleeping, with Draco making the obvious assumption that Harry would like a guest room of his own. 

"No," Harry says, quite patiently for someone who hasn't quite made eye contact since they'd got out of the bath. "We're an _us_ now. Unless you don't want me in your room, but otherwise I'm staying with you."

Draco can feel himself going pink. "All right," he says. "I just thought you might prefer it."

"No," Harry says again. He summons his bags with a flick of his wand, and they deposit themselves at his feet, in the entrance of Draco's bedroom. "Are you going to show me around then, or what?"

Draco obediently steps back and invites Harry into his room. It's got a green tartan theme because he hasn't bothered redecorating it since taking over the ownership of the castle. There's a large bed in the centre of the room, vaguely littered with Draco's travelling outfit and the discarded parts of his Quidditch kit. 

"I didn't know you'd be coming in," Draco says, "otherwise I would have tidied up after myself."

"Yes," Harry says. He's still wrapped in his robe from the bathroom, as is Draco. He glances around. "The decor reminds me of Professor McGonagall." 

"Well, that's going to make it slightly more difficult to masturbate in here from here on in, so thank you."

Harry manages a grin at that. He's been relatively quiet since his revelation in the bathroom, a little awkward and uncertain. 

"It's all right, you know," Draco says. "It's all right to tell me things that you want. You don't have to be ashamed of it."

Harry shoots him a glance. "I've never said that… I mean, what I wanted. I've never said it out loud in my life."

"Well, you've said it now. And you're going to get what you want. I'm going to give it to you."

"Maybe that's the scary part."

Draco looks at him. Neither of them have made a move to start getting dressed. "Come on," he says, and nods towards the bed. "Let's just sit down for a bit."

Harry gets to the bed first, and settles himself back against the pillows, legs up on the sheets. Draco hadn't quite imagined going that far, he'd sort of pictured them perching on the edge because he wasn't dressed properly for bed. Nevertheless, he climbs onto the bed and next to Harry, who immediately curls into Draco's side, much to Draco's surprise. He hovers for a second before wrapping his arms around Harry. 

"It's embarrassing," Harry says, without looking up. 

"Compared to what I get off on, is it more, less, or the same amount of embarrassing?"

"I don't even know if I get off on it. I meant it when I said I didn't want it all the time. I just want to do it. Sometime. I just kept thinking about it. And then I saw you and I thought maybe we could just… swap weird shit we fancied doing. I don't know."

"Wanted to do it sometime," Draco says. "It's a good thing we've got lots of unplanned sometimes, then."

"Why aren't you more freaked out about this?" Harry asks. 

Draco considers for a moment. "I don't know," he says. "Maybe because I like looking after you."

"It's weird though. I want to be helpless. And loved."

"Yes," Draco says. "Blankets and bottles, you said." There's a pause. "You know I'll be learning too, right? It's not like I've ever had much contact with babies and small children."

Harry hides his face in Draco's robe. "Blankets and bottles and nappies," he says. "I want to know what they feel like."

"Oh," Draco says. "All right."

"It doesn't have to be a big thing," Harry says. "We could just try it like this for a bit, here even, or in London at mine, and then, if it's awful, we never have to do it again. I might not even like it." He sounds a little desperate, and Draco is fairly certain that Harry's going to like it, and that he wants it, and that he needs it. Like Draco needs what he gets from the two of them. How his life's better for it. 

"It could be a big thing, though. And that would be all right."

"You should be more weirded out."

"No," Draco says. It's not like he's not going to need a bit of time to get his head around it. He'd like to know more about it, but it's not like his father's library is going to have a book on it, and he can't just pop into Flourish and Blotts and hope they've got a strange kinks section for the niche witch or wizard. Maybe one of the bookshops in Soho. 

"Draco--"

"Do you think you might want a nursery?" Draco asks, because it's not like he's had much time to think about this, and it's not like he's ever come across anyone who wants to be treated like they're a little boy before, but Harry just keeps expanding the wealth of his offer to Draco so it makes sense that Draco would return the favour. "There's one here we could use."

Harry's fingers catch in Draco's robe. "When did you think of that?"

"Just now. There's a nursery upstairs. I think it's got a nice view."

Harry presses his face into Draco's robe. "Maybe," he says. "Can we talk about it tomorrow?"

"All right," Draco says. There's a pause. "Are we, um-- I don't know what to call you."

"Potter," Harry says, a little lazily. "That's what you used to call me at school."

"With a touch of disdain. Always a touch of disdain."

"Or smug superiority. Do you remember that time you gave Rita Skeeter all those stories about me during the Triwizard Tournament?"

"I do," Draco says. "I put up with a lot to tell the world just how annoying you were. I had to make secret liaisons with a beetle."

"I think if you'd kissed me then, I might have kissed you back."

"I think we would have had a knockdown fight first. I hated you. Hogwarts Champion. You were always so special. Everything always happened to you."

"The shit stuff in particular," Harry says mildly. 

"I know," Draco says. He strokes Harry's hair. "I know that now. I know that now. My brave boy."

Harry burrows in a little closer. "I'm so tired of being brave all the time. I'm so tired of always pretending I can deal with it."

"It's all right to want a break."

"Even if it comes with blankets and bottles?"

"If it helps." Draco strokes his hand down Harry's arm. "I meant it though. I don't know what to call you. Us."

Harry tilts his chin up, shifting position a bit. "Me and you? I like boyfriend."

_Boyfriend_. "I've never been anyone's boyfriend."

"I've only ever been it for Ginny."

"Do you think Ronald is still blue?"

"If Ginny knows how to turn him back and she hadn't, then yes, he'll still be blue until it fades. I suspect his children love it."

"Children?"

"Rose and Hugo," Harry says. "They're lovely."

"Uncle Harry, hey?"

"Yeah," Harry says. "Family even without the blood. Me and Hermione and Ron had been through too much not to pretty much be bound for life, anyway. And now there are Rose and Hugo. Ron stays at home with them. He's a brilliant dad."

"Ron stays at home with them?"

"He does. He wanted to."

Draco has heard of this happening, but he's never known anyone where their mother was the main breadwinner. He can't help but wonder if his mother would have been happier if she'd been able to focus on something other than Draco's failure to position himself in the marriage mart over the past decade. 

"Boyfriend," he says slowly. "Boyfriends."

Harry tugs him down so that he can press his mouth to Draco's. He curls his fingers in Draco's hair and pulls him closer. "No getting rid of me now," he says, and Draco grins into his kiss. 

*****

It turns out that Draco isn't very good at sleeping next to someone. Before Harry, he's never done it, and he hasn't shared a room with anyone else properly since school. He keeps waking up, and tossing and turning, and then there's a bit where Harry cries out in his sleep, brow furrowed, and Draco startles awake and strokes his hand over Harry's sleeve to settle him. 

And then it's morning, and he's slept in, and when he wakes up, it's to find Harry sitting up in bed sipping at a cup of tea. 

"Morning," Harry says. 

Draco sleepily frowns. "I'm a light sleeper," he says. "How did you get out of bed without waking me?"

"Magic," Harry says, which doesn't particularly illuminate anything. "How soon do you reckon you'll be up for cake fucking?"

Draco blinks. "You can't have cake for breakfast."

"You can," Harry says, "and I'm giving you permission to eat exactly what you want, when you want. As many sweet things as you want, Piglet."

Draco's little cock perks up. In his llama pyjamas it's an odd sight, the little jut of his tiny cock. 

"Cake for breakfast?"

"That's right. A lovely breakfast for a nice soft piglet."

Draco rolls over. "I'm going to wash my face," he says, which is code for use the bathroom. 

"Good," Harry says. "And when you come back, you should be naked."

Draco nods, already excited. A dirty little piglet, naked and having cake for breakfast. 

When he comes back, his pyjamas are neatly folded and he's done all the useful things like cleaning his teeth and using the toilet and washing his face. The dog bed is on the floor by Harry's side of the bed, and Harry's taken his pyjama top off, sitting up in bed still holding his cup of tea. 

Harry nods towards the dog bed. "Wait there," he says. "I'm drinking my tea."

The dog bed is soft and warm and Draco curls up on it, one knee up to his chest, waiting. He rests his cheek on his knee, trying to ignore his stiff little cock. Harry is ignoring him, drinking his tea and reading _Quidditch Through The Ages_ again. Draco likes the idea of Harry sitting in Draco's bed, reading a book. 

It's a deliberate while before Harry turns his attention back to Draco again. "I've finished my tea," he says. "Follow me. You can walk down the stairs and crawl downstairs." He closes his book and takes it with him, even as he's heading for the stairs, barefoot. He's wearing pyjama trousers only, and no top. 

Draco follows him in fierce anticipation of what's coming. At the bottom of the staircase - and Harry has clearly located the back stairs that go straight to the kitchens, rather than the wide, front staircase that heads for the front hall - Draco obediently goes down on his hands and knees, even though Harry doesn't look behind him to check. 

In the kitchen, in the middle of the floor, is a single chocolate gateau, covered in chocolate cream and little chocolate stars. It's sitting in Draco's red food bowl, but this time the gold lettering says DIRTY PIGLET in all caps. 

"Masturbate on it," Harry says, without paying him any real attention. "Come all over it, Piglet." And then he goes over to the kettle to make himself another cup of tea. 

Draco crawls over to the cake, his mouth watering. He longs to taste it, to put his mouth to the cream, but he's not allowed. He has to masturbate on it, like the filthy little piglet he is. His useless little cock is so stiff and he wraps his hand around it, even though he's really too small to fist his cock. His cocklet disappears inside his fist. It's not going to take him long to come, imagining what's coming next. Just being naked and on his knees for Harry is enough to push him to the brink, but couple that with Harry virtually ignoring him, getting on with his breakfast like Draco's not even there, it gets him almost there already. But then, adding that to the fact that he's going to be coming on a cake that he's then going to have to put his face in, that he's going to eat for breakfast, it's barely going to take him any time at all. 

He's masturbating his cocklet, kneeling on his kitchen floor, on his hands and knees whilst his boyfriend ignores him and treats him like he's nothing, and it makes Draco want to come. It makes him want to come all over the cake. 

"Get a move on, Piglet," Harry says, without turning around. He's making himself tea and a piece of toast. A perfectly normal breakfast, but then he's not a greedy piglet, not like Draco. 

He's a greedy piglet who loves sweet things and being dirty, and he fucking loves Harry, and of all the things that have happened to Draco recently, it's loving Harry that is perhaps the most unbelievable. He'd never imagined the rest of it could happen, not in his wildest dreams. Most of it hadn't even made it into his fantasies. Harry, though, Harry's been stuck in his head since he was eleven, and Harry had never wanted him. He'd never, ever wanted him. 

And now he does. Now he wants the two of them to be an _us_. 

"Come all over your cake, Draco," Harry says, turning around and stepping past him to go and sit at the kitchen table. "Show me how dirty you really are."

Draco is almost there, almost past the brink. He fixes his glance on the food bowl -- _his_ food bowl -- and on the DIRTY PIGLET lettering in Gryffindor colours. _So Piglet knows who owns him_ , he remembers, and Draco knows. He _knows_. He knows. _Property of the House of Potter_. 

He comes, like a dirty little piglet, all over his chocolate cake. 

He looks up at Harry then, who's sitting with his legs spread and the line of his cock obvious in his pyjama trousers. And then he lifts his hand, the one he's just wanked himself with, and he licks it until it's wet with spit and clean of come and pre-come. 

Harry takes a sip of his tea, then lifts his wand. He must have left it down here earlier, because he hadn't carried it with him. A second chocolate cake appears on the floor next to the first one. The icing is more extravagant on this one, more whirls of chocolate cream and chocolate stars and planets. It sparkles. 

"Are you ready to put your dick in that?" Harry asks. 

Draco nods. This hadn't ever been on his to-do list but it doesn't matter. He wants it. The shame burns through him. He's not even hard and he wants to rut his cock down into the cake, make a mess, get it everywhere. 

"Up on your hands and knees," Harry says, holding his wand, and then the cake moves over the tiles until it's lined up with Draco's little, useless cock. "You've got your cake to eat and your cake to fuck now, Piglet. Get on with it."

Draco's overwhelmed. He doesn't know what to do, but he knows he wants to experience the chocolate cream touching his cock. He lowers his hips, moving his knees a little further back, until his cock's hanging over the cake, almost touching. And then he rolls his hips down, and his cock touches the cake, and there's icing across the tip. It's soft and delicious and he wants it in his mouth. 

He leans down and he gets chocolate icing on his chin even before any makes it into his mouth. It smells incredible, a heavenly rich chocolate cake that he's covered in his come. And then he takes a bite, cream catching on his cheeks and his nose as he groans over his mouthful. He's never eaten anything like this before, never been offered as much of a cake as he wants to eat, never eaten one without a cake fork. He wants to smear it across his face and into his hair and really be as dirty and as filthy a piglet as Harry seems to think he is. He takes another mouthful, and another, groaning into it, the icing and the cake going everywhere. Some of it hangs off his cheek. He hasn't even had the equivalent of a full slice yet. 

"You can sit on the cake if you want," Harry says. "Get it everywhere."

Draco looks up at him. He knows his eyes are probably wide. He probably looks like a complete state and he's barely got started. 

Harry shrugs. "If you fuck it up too much, there's another cake."

Another cake. Draco almost laughs. 

"Go on, then," Harry says, gaze fixed on Draco. His eyes are bright. Draco loves him. 

He sits down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a bad spot to hit 50k on the last day of nano with! Thank you for the comments x


	19. Chapter 19

Draco sits down on his cake. It goes everywhere. He can feel it, all over his thighs and his balls and his little, useless cock, cream and chocolate stars and moist, chocolatey sponge. It should be the worst thing he's ever done in his life but his whole body feels like he's trembling with it, overwhelmed and desperate. He doesn't know what to do next, doesn't know how to deal with how this feels. 

Harry leans forward in his seat. "Is that dirty enough for you, Piglet?"

Draco whines. He doesn't know what else to do, which part of him to move. His face is already chocolatey. He can't look down, not at the mess he's made all over the kitchen floor by sitting on his cake. 

"Tell me, Draco."

"So dirty," Draco says. 

"Look down and see," Harry says, and it's a wrench, but Draco forces himself to. The cake's squashed, smashed into pieces, icing and sponge smeared across his skin and the floor and his thighs. His dick is a mess of chocolate. "You're such a filthy piglet. What are you?"

"Filthy piglet," Draco says. He barely knows what he's saying. "Your dirty piglet, Sir."

"That's right," Harry says, and he leans even closer in. "And I want to see your face in that cake."

Draco nods, already trying to position himself. He can't, not whilst he's still sitting on the cake. 

Harry clearly takes pity on him, but his disdain is palpable. "You'll have to lie in your mess," he says, waving a hand in Draco's general direction. "Get it everywhere. You can fuck the third cake now that you've ruined this one. Afterwards."

So Draco does. He lies, full length, on the kitchen floor, dick pressed into a destroyed, sat-on cake, resting on his elbows. And then he leans in and takes another bite, not even trying for delicate, getting cake smeared all over his face. A chocolate star gets stuck to his lip. Some of the icing gets on his nose. The noises he's making are humiliating. He's like a pig at a trough. He's sticky and dirty and he's hard, he's _hard_ , and it's so, so filthy. He never knew he could be this dirty, or this full of shame, or this fucking turned on. 

Harry has somehow moved, kneeling down by his side, his pyjama bottoms gone. He's hard too. He slides his hand into Draco's hair. 

"My dirty piglet," Harry says, stroking his hair. He's gentle for a moment, and then he takes his hand away and scoops up some of the cake and icing, smearing it over Draco's cheek. He holds his hand in front of Draco's mouth and Draco licks at it, tries to lick him clean. He lets Draco keep licking him even as he's running his other hand down Draco's back and over his arse, where he's dirty and there's cake stuck to his bum. "Spread your legs, Draco."

Draco obeys. Harry scoops up more cake for him to eat from his fingers, and at the same time, he's stroking between Draco's legs, smearing cake over his balls and his bum and touching the underside of his cock, which must be peeking out from between his legs. 

"Such a little cock, Piglet. It's not even a proper cock, is it? What is it?"

Draco's cheeks burn. "A cocklet," he says. "Nothing."

"That's right," Harry says. "Nothing important. You can't fuck me with it, can you? What's the only think you can fuck with it?"

"A cake," Draco says. 

"And not even that very well," Harry says conversationally. "Can you even imagine what you look like right now?"

"No," Draco says, but he's burning red just thinking about it. He eats more cake from Harry's fingers. 

"Well," Harry says. "Look up, Piglet."

Draco looks up. A free-standing mirror appears in the kitchen right in front of him, and Draco is faced with the reality of what he looks like, flushed and messy and covered in cake. He looks wanton and overwhelmed and so desperately, desperately turned on. He whines. 

Harry scoops up more cake with his hand and holds it to Draco's mouth, pressing it against his lips. He doesn't drop the pressure and it goes all over his cheeks, even as Draco's opening his mouth and begging for more. 

"Watch yourself," Harry tells him. "See what I have to see. My filthy little piglet."

The noise Draco makes is unexpectedly loud. 

"Would you like to be messier, Draco?" Harry asks, but he doesn't wait for an answer. He smears the handful of cake across Draco's face, and Draco presses himself into Harry's hand, wanting it, wanting more. "Rub yourself against the cake."

Draco rocks his hips down against the cake. He's got cake and cream everywhere, and he's sticky and dirty and it's not enough. He's not ashamed enough. He wants more. 

"Can I masturbate with it?" he asks "Please."

"Do what you want," Harry says, and he almost sounds like he doesn't care, like figuring out what Draco wants is too much effort. Like Draco should be seen and not heard. Like he shouldn't even be seen. 

Draco goes back onto his knees, scooping up some of the cake so that he can wrap his hand around his cock. His cocklet, covered in cake. He's such a dirty piglet. He scoops up some of the rest of the cake and presses it to his mouth, eating it up. It's rich and delicious and his mother would only ever have allowed him a tiny slither of a slice. 

Harry lets him have as much cake as he'd like. Harry gives him permission. 

Harry tells him what he's allowed and not allowed to do, and Draco craves it. He fucking craves it. 

"Look in the mirror," Harry says then, and Draco does. He meets his own gaze in his reflection, cake squeezing through his fingers as he fists his tiny, useless cock, cream smeared across his face and up into his hair. 

Harry, behind him, reaches down for a handful of cake, and smears it over Draco's nipples. "Piglet," he says. "Such a dirty piglet. Always want to wank, don't you?"

"Always," Draco says, nodding. 

Harry positions himself behind Draco, knees either side of Draco's thighs. His dick is hard, pressed up against the gap between Draco's thighs, and when he presses forward, his dick slides into the gap, messy with cake and cream. 

He kisses Draco's messy cheek, wrapping one arm around Draco's chest. "Let me fuck your thighs," he says, and it's the only thing that he's said that isn't a demand. It's a question by any other wording, a careful request because Harry only ever seems to go as far as Draco has allowed him, and never past his limits. 

Draco squeezes his thighs around Harry's cock. "I'm all dirty."

"I know," Harry says. "You're always dirty. You're a dirty fucking piglet."

"I am," Draco says. "I'm a cake-fucking piglet."

"Not yet, you're not," Harry says, and there's a little _pop_ as the third cake appears, balanced in Harry's hand. "But you can be."

Draco stops touching his cake-covered little cocklet. "Can I?" he asks. "Can I fuck the cake?"

"It's what you were born to do," Harry says, bringing the cake closer. His cock's still tightly squeezed between Draco's thighs, and he rocks his hips up, "Growing up just to be my dirty cake-fucking piglet."

Draco's cocklet grazes the cake, but Harry's other arm is around his chest and he can't press forward. Anyway, his cocklet isn't big enough. 

"Please," he begs. "Please let me fuck the cake."

"What are you?"

"A dirty, come-hungry, cake-fucking piglet."

"Yeah," Harry says, and he shoves the cake onto Draco's little cock. 

Draco cries out, his hips rocking forward. He fucks his cocklet into the cake, Harry controlling it, controlling him. The cream goes everywhere. The sponge and the chocolate are so soft and moist and slick, and he's fucking his cocklet into a chocolate cake and watching himself in the mirror, and it's probably the dirtiest thing he's ever done, or imagined doing, in his whole entire life. 

Harry fucks his thighs, dick sticky and slick, the cake catching at the hairs on his legs, on his pubic hair, and every pull, every tug, every catch makes it even better. 

He licks his lips, trying to taste the cake, and he wants Harry to fuck him, wants him to fuck him properly, really own him, but what he's doing right now feels incredible. Harry's incredible. 

"Are you going to come, Piglet? You should come, show me how dirty you are."

Draco makes a noise at that, the sound catching somewhere at the back of his throat. He is going to come. He's going to come with his stupid little cock pressed into a cake, and it's all so overwhelming and too much that he barely knows what he's doing. 

"Come on," Harry says, dick sliding through his thighs with a dirty squelch. "I want you to come."

And Draco, well, he can't resist Harry asking him for something. He's compelled to obey. 

Draco comes, his useless little cock fucking up into his cake, Harry's arm pressed across his chest. He comes. 

Harry keeps on fucking his thighs, but he comes too, following after Draco in less than a minute, breathless and panting against Draco's shoulder. 

Draco is so overwhelmed he doesn't quite remember how to breathe. It's a full minute before he slumps, like someone's cut his strings. He's boneless. He's so full of shame that it seeps out of him, and he can tell the moment Harry gets it, because he kisses his neck. 

"You were so good," Harry says. "Draco, you were so, so good."

"Filthy," Draco says. He can't look up, can't meet his eyes in the mirror. 

Harry shushes him. "So good, Draco. I'm going to clean you right up." 

There's a fresh tingle of a cleaning spell then, and whilst it's not Draco's preferred form of cleanliness, the sticky, slick, dirty remains of the cake is gone from his skin, and from Harry's too. The cakes themselves are vanished. 

"Turn around," Harry says, "let's get you turned around." He manoeuvres Draco around until he's pressed chest to chest with Harry, Draco kneeling over him. 

Draco hides his face in Harry's neck and holds on. 

"Open your eyes," Harry says. He's stroking his hand down Draco's back. "Just open your eyes and tell me what you see."

"No," Draco says. He fucked a cake. 

"Yes," Harry says. He's still stroking Draco's back. "Be brave."

Draco opens his eyes. There's a second mirror now, and the two of them are kneeling between both mirrors. He can see Harry hugging him, and Draco wrapped around Harry with his face mostly hidden. 

"What can you see?"

"Me," Draco says. "And you."

"Us," Harry says. "No need to be ashamed."

"What do you see?"

"Me and you," Harry says. His hand is still stroking over Draco's back, up and down over the bumps in his spine. 

"No need to be ashamed," Draco echoes. He presses his mouth to Harry's throat. "That goes for you too."

Harry's skin flushes. "It's different."

"It's really not," Draco says. He closes his eyes again. "I liked that," he says finally. "What we just did."

"I know," Harry says. "We can do it again whenever you want."

He must have cast warming charms over the tiles, because neither of them are shivering to death on the cold kitchen floor. When Draco opens his eyes, the mirrors are both gone. 

"Take me back to bed," Draco says, after a while. 

Harry's arm tightens around Draco's back, and then there's the _whoosh_ of side-along apparition, and they're upstairs in the bedroom, kneeling on the floor by the bed. 

"Show off," Draco says, grumbling. He's still flushed and hot and embarrassed. 

Harry helps him to his feet, and then under the covers. He follows him in, and wraps his arms around Draco's shoulders. "Don't be embarrassed," he says. "Don't be embarrassed because it's something we both want."

"To humiliate me," Draco says dryly. 

"For you to be happy, and get what you need," Harry says, and Draco can't look at him after that. 

He closes his eyes and presses closer instead. "I want to give you what you need too."

"I know," Harry says. "Thank you."

Draco slides his hands into the small of Harry's back. _All right_ , he thinks. _Yes_.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a while, so just a little chapter :)

Being in Scotland with Harry is a strange experience. 

For a start, Draco’s never particularly lived here, his stays limited to desultory check-ups with his father when he was compiling a property portfolio as a protective measure, and then - after his father’s death - in improving the wards to keep himself busy. He’s never slept in in his four poster bed in his Minerva McGonagall themed bedroom, or worn his pyjamas in the large sitting room with windows overlooking the overgrown gardens and the empty falconry. He’s never drunk tea on the sofa next to Harry Potter, who has his feet up on the seat like he’s not been taught manners, and he’s never shared kisses over afternoon tea as they found an old record player and a cupboard full of Muggle records from the 60s and 70s. He’s never licked cream and strawberries from Harry’s palm, kneeling down in his furry pet bed. He’s never masturbated at Harry’s feet with Harry’s hand in his hair, Harry feeding him tiny pieces of Scottish tablet until he’s whining and coming in his hand. 

He’s never slept with someone at his side and woken up early to plan tiny, careful changes to the nursery upstairs, and what he needs to procure to put his plans in place. 

“What are you doing next weekend?” Draco asks on Sunday, when Harry’s come back to bed with toast and tea. 

“I’m seeing Hermione and Ron on Friday night for dinner,” he says, climbing back under the covers. His toes are cold and he warms them against Draco’s calves. “After that I was just going to see what came up.”

“How about you come up,” Draco says. “Come up here. Let me spoil you.”

Harry doesn’t meet his eyes. “Spoil me how?”

“However you need,” he says, which covers a multitude of sins. 

Harry curls into Draco’s side, and wraps an arm around his chest. “And what if I need to call you Piglet all weekend and put you on the lead?”

“Well,” Draco says, trying to ignore the little jump his cock makes at the thought. “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

“I could make you sleep in your pet bed. Not let you in the proper bed. Treat you like an animal all weekend.”

“Yes,” Draco says. 

“Only let you eat from a bowl on the floor. You like that.”

“I do,” Draco says. “I like everything we do.”

“You need it,” Harry says. “You’re a horny little piglet.”

Heat envelops him from the inside out. “I am. A come-hungry little piglet.” There’s a pause. “But you could be my good little boy if you wanted to. If you wanted it. I could look after you. Next weekend.”

“I don’t want it,” Harry says, too quickly.

“All right,” Draco says, because it’s obvious that Harry does want it. That he longs for it. That he’s never going to ask for it. He strokes Harry’s hair. Harry shivers underneath his touch. “I like looking after you so much,” he says, after a while. He’s still stroking. “I like making your bed and warming your cock and looking after your clothes and making you come. I like making you feel good. I like that. I want it.”

“It’s weird, what I want,” Harry says. 

Draco keeps stroking his hair. “You look after me so well,” he says. “All those sweets. All the ways you know to give me what I need. I want to learn those for you.”

“I like giving you sweets. I like how soft you are. I like making you come. I like you being my piglet.”

“I know,” Draco says, and inside he hums with it. “I know that.”

“I love how desperate you are for it.”

“Yes,” Draco says. “I want it so much, and you give it to me.”

Harry nips at him with his teeth. “Stop turning it back on me.”

“I’m just making sure that you know,” Draco says. “It goes both ways and I want to do it. I want to give you what you want.”

Harry doesn’t say anything to that, and Draco keeps on stroking his hair. 

“Just so you know,” Draco says. “I want to do it.”

The wait this time is longer. “All right,” Harry says finally. “All right.”

“Good,” Draco says, and kisses the top of his head.


	21. Chapter 21

Harry sends him a message on Wednesday afternoon about meeting up that night. 

Draco, who had planned to spend the evening in Scotland making adjustments to the nursery, changes his plans accordingly, and waits in for Harry instead. 

The apparition crack sounds at half past seven. Draco's in his mother's sitting room. There's tea. He's eaten a dinner of thinly cut sandwiches and followed it up with a small, delicate strawberry tartlet he'd picked up from a bakery that morning. If he'd known he would be seeing Harry tonight, he may well have bought another. 

"Hello," Harry says, leaning against the doorway. There's a pause. "You're not ready for me."

Draco tilts his chin up. "I'm sorry," he says, even though there hadn't been instructions in Harry's hastily scrawled note that afternoon. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Stupid piglet," Harry says. 

Heat thrums over Draco's skin, his little cocklet already getting hard. Harry seems to know exactly what will turn Draco on. HIs cheeks flush. 

"What are you?" Harry asks, still leaning lazily against the door frame. 

"A stupid piglet," Draco says. 

"Yeah," Harry says. "Show me your cock."

Draco hastens to obey, unbuttoning his trousers and pushing them down. His underwear follows. His little cock juts out, already hard. 

"You took too long," Harry says. "You'll have to forego the underwear in future."

Draco pauses. 

"Or if you must wear it," Harry goes on, like he wasn't paying any attention to Draco at all, "I'm going to pick it from now on. Frills, I think. Satin. Lace. Pink. The more humiliating the better, don't you think?"

Draco nods. He'd never-- he hadn't considered that before. Frilly, humiliating, tiny underwear. Embarrassment all day long, even when he was going about his usual business, professional and calm. 

"And all of it," Harry says, "will say _Property of the House of Potter_."

"Please," Draco says, before he's even had a chance to properly process it. "Please, sir. Please."

"Who owns you?" Harry says, all without moving. 

"You do," Draco says. Pre come blurts out of his slit. "You own me."

"Whose piglet are you?"

"Your piglet," Draco says. "You can do what you want with me."

"I know," Harry says. "You think I don't know that?" There's a pause. "Take all your clothes off. Show me both your holes in turn. Remind me of your value."

"I'm nothing," Draco says, even as he's taking off his sweater, loosening his tie, and unbuttoning his shirt. "Just holes."

"I know," Harry says. He stops leaning against the doorframe then, stepping closer. He takes off his coat and his scarf and leaves them over the edge of the sofa. "Show me them."

Draco folds up his clothes and leaves them on the seat. It's not that warm in here yet; the fire hasn't been burning long and it crackles in the grate, but the room is slow to heat up. He gets down on his knees, facing away from Harry, and leans down so his cheek's pressed to the carpet. He does as he's been taught, moving his legs apart and then reaching behind him so that he can hold his arse cheeks apart with his hands, presenting his hole for approval. 

"What a dirty little piglet," Harry says, without inflection. Draco's skin hums with humiliation. "What a useless little hole. What is it?"

"Useless," Draco repeats. "Your piglet's useless little hole."

"Yeah," Harry sounds bored. "Show me your other hole." 

Draco isn't entirely certain how to present his mouth for inspection, but he gets up on his knees and puts his hands behind his back, opening his mouth. 

"Let your tongue hang out," Harry says, bored. "You are an animal that eats off the floor, after all."

Draco whines, unable to help himself. He sticks his tongue out more, letting it hang out of his mouth like an animal. 

"Get on your back," Harry says. "Hook your arms under your knees. Show me both your holes at once."

Draco scrambles to obey, laying on his back and bringing his knees up to his chest. He's on his mother's rug. He's a dirty little piglet, humiliating himself on his mother's rug. He lets his tongue hang out. 

Harry sits down on the edge of the sofa. "I could immobilise you like this, you know," he says softly. "Make you stay like this all evening. My little come-hungry piglet. My filthy little pig."

Something like electricity crackles over Draco's skin. He's learnt about electricity now, how it powers muggle houses. He's learnt a lot. 

"Imagine what that would feel like, Draco. Immobilised. A dirty piglet with its holes out. Nothing."

"Please," Draco begs, and his head feels like it might explode. "Do it. Please do it."

Harry glances at him. 

"I want it," Draco says. And he does. He _does_. He wants it so badly. "I want to be made to stay like this."

"I wouldn't even notice you were there," Harry says, still watching him. "I've got a book to read. There's tea in the pot. Why would I be thinking about you?"

"You wouldn't be," Draco says. "You wouldn't remember I was there."

"Why would I?" Harry says. "You're just holes."

"A dirty piglet with its holes out."

Harry drops down to his knees beside Draco. "I could do it," he says. 

Draco meets his gaze. "I want you to."

"Draco--"

"I'm asking you to," Draco says, and he means it. "I want it."

Harry doesn't look away. His gaze searches Draco's. "You'll be able to move your eyes," he says finally. "Blink three times in a row and the spell will break."

"Please," Draco says. "Please, Harry. Do it."

Harry moves his hand over Draco's chest. "Three times, okay, Draco? You got that?"

Draco just nods. His mouth's open again, presenting his holes. HIs tongue's out. 

Harry murmurs his spell, and it hums over Draco's skin for barely a second before he's stilled. He's bound in place. He's immobilised, his face turned towards Harry's, his mouth open, his knees pulled up to his chest. His holes out. 

"Just a useless little fucktoy," Harry says, after a second. "Don't know why I didn't think of this before." He doesn't meet Draco's eyes. Instead, he goes back to sit on the sofa. He _accios_ his bag across the room and gets out a small stack of books that he unshrinks back to normal size, helping himself to a cup of tea from the pot. He arranges himself so that he's comfortable, book on the arm of the sofa, one knee up so he's got a foot on Draco's mother's best sofa, the cup of tea resting next to him on the cushion. 

Draco's mother only approved of cups of tea if they were neatly placed on saucers, on coasters, and on tables. Draco had never looked as comfortable as Harry did right now, curled up on the sofa with his attention fixed firmly on his book. Draco couldn't do anything other than look at him, watching. He might not be able to move a muscle, but it doesn't stop him from drooling around his lolling tongue, and the shame courses through him as he dribbles onto the rug. He longs to come, longs to touch his tiny little cock, longs to masturbate his need onto the floor. All his life he's wanted something, needed something that he's never been able to properly vocalise, even to himself, and Harry keeps finding new ways to bury in deeper and uncover parts of Draco's soul. 

Uncover, and put on display. 

He wants this so much. 

Time ticks on, and Harry turns the pages and sips at his tea. After what feels like half an hour, he switches from one book to another, slipping a bookmark in the first and opening the second. The second one is big and heavy and full of pictures - not like magical books that move, but a Muggle one, and Harry flicks through, turning to the index at the back and then back through. 

"I'd ask you if you had an opinion on what underwear you wanted," Harry says after a while, without looking up, "but it's not like you would want to express an opinion even if you weren't bound still. So I get to pick my piglet's knickers."

Draco wouldn't want to choose even if he could. Not about this. He wants Harry to. Wants Harry to take control and not give it back. 

"I think I'll get you some little lacy bralets too," Harry goes on. "Cover those little nipples of yours."

Draco would shiver if he could, but he can't. He lies there, holes out. His cock leaks. Drool dribbles down onto the rug. 

"That cocklet of yours is so little it'll fit in the tiniest of knickers, won't it?" He glances at Draco. "Not that you can answer." He rolls his eyes as he spots the drool on the rug. "Filthy piglet," he says, and reaches across to Draco's pile of clothes, to where he's folded his underwear. Harry transfigures it into something tiny and baby pink and frilly, slipping it down onto the rug by Draco's mouth. "If you must make a mess of something, it had better be your dirty knickers, Piglet."

Draco almost blinks three times just so he can wear them right now. His eyes plead with Harry, but Harry just turns his attention to his big Muggle book of pictures. 

After a while, Harry starts to touch himself through his trousers, his dick hardening. "These are real men, Draco, real men with real cocks." He shows Draco the pages he's looking at, full page pictures of muscled, beautiful men showcasing skimpy male Muggle underwear. Wizards don't wear things like that. Draco's mouth waters at the thought of sucking cocks like those. Harry unzips his trousers and gets his cock out. "They could fuck me, couldn't they, Draco? With those proper cocks they've got. Not like your pointless little cocklet. Not surprising I'm masturbating over pictures of them, is it? When the alternative's you and your cocklet. Bet you'd like to play with yourself though, wouldn't you? Watch these proper men fuck me and all you can do is masturbate as you're cuckolded. Nothing but a piglet. A horny little cuckold. My pet Piglet."

He's wanking himself off, and Draco's not standing for this. The only person who makes Harry come is Draco. He blinks three times in quick succession and the spell breaks. Muscles held rigid for so long immediately start to ache but he ignores it all in favour of scrambling to his knees. 

"I'm the one who makes you come," he says. "Me."

Harry just rolls his eyes at him, but he's grinning. He sits back in the chair, legs going wide. "Have at it, then, Piglet. Make me come."

Draco crawls in between Harry's legs, leaning in to take Harry's cock in his mouth. He groans around, the familiar weight settling on his tongue. He suckles on the tip until Harry's groaning with it, and then takes him in deeper, letting Harry fuck his mouth, Harry's hand settling in his hair, holding him there. 

Yes, this. _This_. He wants to be used, he wants to be nothing more than a warm hole for Harry to fuck, he wants to have a use and be nothing all at the same time. He wants to suck him until his jaw aches and his throat's sore and he's been properly, properly used. 

"You can't fuck me, can you, Draco?" Harry says, breathless above him. "That cock's useless for that. This is the only thing you're good at. Sucking me off."

Draco can't fuck anything. He can't fuck Harry. He's just a piglet, just holes, just something to be used when useful, and ignored the rest of the time. Heat thrums through him. 

It takes Harry a while to come, and when he does, Draco swallows it all down eagerly, and doesn't pull away. Harry's hand in his hair holds him there, even as Harry's shivering through the aftershocks.

Eventually, Harry nudges him back and onto his heels. 

"Are you all right?" he asks. 

Draco wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yes," he says, and he stretches out his shoulders. His little dick's still jutting out, stiff and hard. His legs ache from being locked in the same position for so long. He flushes. 

"You sure?"

"Yes," Draco says. He'd just begged to be immobilised in the most shameful of positions; humiliation spreads across his skin like wildfire. 

"I know what you are," Harry says softly. "I know it all."

"I know," Draco says. 

"Put your knickers on," Harry says, nudging Draco's knee with his toes. "Then show them off to me."

Draco knows he's flushing. He can't bring himself to stop. The transfigured knickers are a tiny pile of pale pink frills and lace, complete with little wet patches from where he'd drooled. When he picks them up, they really are tiny, a little patch of pink at the front, held together with little frills around the side, and something barely thicker than a string at the back. It takes him more time that it should to even decide where his legs would go; he's never even seen anything this revealing, let alone considered wearing it. 

He pulls them up until the frills are resting on his hips and his tiny dick is stretching out the pale pink triangle because of his erection. There's nowhere really for his balls to go. 

Harry glances at Draco's knickers. "They fit just right," he says, which has to be a lie because Draco's balls are falling out and his dick's barely concealed and he's really only worn long underwear in his life. 

"They're tiny," Draco says. 

Harry ignores that, and pats the space next to him on the sofa. "Come and kiss me hello."

"You got here ages ago," Draco points out. 

"And we got distracted," Harry says. "You were all needy. Could tell from the moment I saw you."

Draco rolls his eyes. "And you were all, you know… dominant."

"Just how you like it," Harry says. He's smiling. "Come and sit down."

"I'm falling out of these."

"You look beautiful in them," Harry says, and Draco flushes even more. 

He sits down on the sofa next to Harry, and is surprised when Harry manoeuvres them both so that Draco's legs are over Harry's lap and Harry can cup Draco's cheek in his palm. 

"I'll order you some more underwear," Harry says, as he touches his lips to Draco's. Draco kisses him back, hungry. He still hasn't come. He's not entirely certain Harry's going to let him, and part of Draco thinks he doesn't deserve to come just yet. "Get you a selection."

"I'd never even thought about it. Different underwear."

"Well," Harry says. "It's a good thing you've got me around, then, isn't it? To spoil you."

"Harry—"

"To spoil you," Harry says. "To give you just what you need." He kisses Draco again. "Don't think I don't know you're planning something for me."

"I'm going to look after you so well," Draco says. "I promise."

It's Harry's turn to flush this time. "You don't have to," he says. "I might not even want it."

"I know," Draco says, because he's fairly certain it's what Harry needs to hear right now. "It'll just be there if you do. When you do."

Harry nudges his nose against Draco's cheek. "Do you think I should let you come tonight?"

"No," Draco says, because he wants to wait. "I haven't done anything to deserve it."

"I don't know about that," Harry says. 

"I do," Draco says. "Make me wait."

Harry kisses him again. "Deal," he says, and grins.


	22. Chapter 22

Draco has no plans to see Harry before going to Scotland at the weekend, so it comes as somewhat of a surprise to find him standing on the doorstep on Thursday evening. 

"Hello," Harry says, as Draco flushes at being caught in his socked feet and with his collar unbuttoned and tie missing. "Can I come in?"

"Did we have plans?" Draco asks, stepping back and into the entrance hall. He hasn't been home long, because the best part of his day has been spent arguing with idiots who have been trying to do their own wards for years, and who have ended up with one of their teenage children almost being eaten by the dining room fireplace. He's bored of stupidity, and had planned an evening in his mother's sitting room with the lamps turned down low, a book, and - most decadently - a small box of hand made truffles he'd gone out of his way for on the way home. 

It's the first box of chocolates he's ever bought for himself. The idea of Harry discovering them - of Harry discovering him _eating them_ \- well, it makes his heart pound. 

"No," Harry says, and he almost thrusts a bottle of wine in Draco's direction. "I just wanted to see you."

Draco glances down at the wine. It's expensive, but Draco is fairly certain that Harry knows nothing about wine or under which circumstances you'd pick which type. His good choice tonight is almost definitely accidental. Unlike Draco, Harry didn't have his parents to drill wine choices into him from the age of twelve. "Is everything all right?"

Harry looks almost embarrassed. "Yes," he says. He closes the door behind him and the complex lock mechanisms start to slide into place. "I just didn't want to sit at home by myself tonight. Thought I might come and sit at yours, with you, instead."

"I was only reading," Draco says. "Have you eaten?"

Harry nods. "Mostly. Have you?"

"Yes," Draco says. It's oddly awkward between them, and it's probably because they started their relationship upside down and back to front, and never did this at the point Draco suspects people in relationships are supposed to get to know each other. 

Draco still spends a good majority of his time unable to believe that he is somebody's boyfriend, and that that somebody is the saviour of the wizarding world. 

He leans in and kisses Harry's cheek, flushing as he does so. 

"Can I stay?"

"Of course," Draco says. "I'm in the sitting room. I'll just go and get us some glasses."

Harry smiles at him. It looks a little lopsided, but generally fond. "Don't use it as an excuse to put your tie back on," he says. "I like you like this."

"Scruffy," Draco says. 

"Comfortable," Harry says, and Draco can't stay and look at Harry looking at him like that, so he disappears in the direction of the kitchen so that he can decant the wine and find them both a glass. 

He comes back a few minutes later, dutifully having failed to put his tie back on, but with a tray with the wine, two glasses, and a selection of sun-dried tomatoes, olives, oils, sliced fresh bread, tiny mozzarella balls, and balsamic vinegar. It wasn't that he hadn't eaten, but a small bowl of soup felt a little like a lie, especially when the box of chocolates he'd treated himself to was going to be the main course. Harry had taken his shoes and coat off, but where he'd magicked them away to, Draco couldn't tell. His jumper was one of his new ones, a deep burgundy, and his trousers slim-fitting and the right length. A book rests on the arm of the sofa closest to Harry. His socks are bright blue and have tiny octopuses on. Draco hadn't signed off on those, he'd have remembered. 

"Peckish?" Harry asks. 

"I thought you might be," Draco says, and he pours them both a small glass of the red wine. It needs more time to breathe, but it would do. He sits down next to Harry, and Harry bumps his knee into Draco's. 

"This is nice," he says. 

"I like looking after you," Draco says, straightening up the tray with its range of small dishes. 

"I know," Harry says. He leans in and kisses him, catching the corner of Draco's mouth. Draco takes a moment to respond, to unwind himself and kiss back. "I hope the wine's okay. Hermione helped me pick it out."

"Hermione Granger, buying wine for me," Draco says. "Does she know she was buying it for me?"

Harry hums. "It's likely she's building up a picture," he says finally. "She knows we've talked. That we're still talking. She's fairly certain she knows I've started seeing someone. I think there's a good chance she'll slide it into conversation tomorrow evening when I'm over for dinner." There's a pause. "Is that all right? That she knows?"

"It's not a secret," Draco says, but he takes a rather larger gulp of wine than he was planning to. 

"Have you told anybody?"

There's a pause that lasts a beat too long. "There's no one for me to tell. There's only my mother, and she has a fractured relationship with how I live my life."

Harry, thankfully, doesn't focus on the fact that Draco has nobody. Or on the fact that his mother was so disappointed by how Draco fared on the marriage mart that she removed to the continent. He dips some of the bread into the little dish of olive oil instead, and takes a bite. "I'm going to tell Hermione we're taking it slowly," he says, before dipping the remainder of the bread into the balsamic vinegar. "That I'm careful about what we are, because it's important to me."

Draco's heart beats loud in his chest. "Harry--"

"We haven't talked about the fact that you're important to me," Harry says, almost like Draco hadn't spoken. "And I'm not certain whether you want me to or not, but it doesn't change the fact that you are. You're very important to me."

Draco looks down at his knees. "You're important to me too," he says. His voice catches. "You're very important. And it's not just because you… you see bits of me that no one else ever has."

Harry slips his hand into Draco's. "I know it's early days. I know what we do isn't conventional. It doesn't mean it isn't exactly what we should be doing to make each other happy."

Draco almost wants to cry. He doesn't. He has been impeccable at keeping his emotions hidden since he was seven years old and he learnt the hard way that boys do not cry. His one failure since then was that time in the toilets when Harry had caught him sobbing, and as a result he'd almost died. "I don't know what this life's supposed to be all about. It's not what my father told me life was about. I don't know if I'll ever know. But you give me things that I need and you keep giving them. It's a kindness. Maybe it's just about that."

Harry puts his glass of wine down on the table, and leans in to cup Draco's cheek in his hand. "I want to keep doing this, then," he says. "Kindnesses."

"Most people wouldn't say that what we do is kind."

"Fuck most people," Harry says, and he kisses Draco again. And again. Then - "Please don't think you have to eat the bread if you'd rather just eat that box of chocolates you've hidden down the side of the sofa."

"They weren't hidden," Draco says, but he knows he's gone pink. A whole box of chocolates, just for him. It's greedy.

"You deserve them," Harry says, settling back against the sofa and bringing Draco with him, an arm around his shoulders. Draco stays rigid for a moment longer than he should before letting himself relax against Harry's side. He takes a sip of wine. It is nice. Granger has good taste. "I'm so pleased you bought them for yourself."

"I never have before," Draco says. "Never."

"Well, you have permission now," Harry says. "As many sweet things as you'd like."

"I'm getting soft," Draco says quietly. His tummy's getting softer. He's no longer skin and bone. _Elegant and slim_ , his mother had always said he should be. _Effortless grace_. It had always taken such effort. He was so tired. 

"It's nice," Harry says. "You're nice."

"A soft piglet," Draco says. 

Harry's hand stills for a moment against his side. "The best kind. For as long as you want it."

Draco nods. He takes another sip of wine. There's a fire in the grate, very carefully guarded so that there's no chance of a stray ember catching alight. One of the reasons Draco had gone into charms and wards professionally was because of the sheer amount of work he'd undertaken after being caught in the fire at school; endless nightmares keeping up in the middle of the night, countless hours where he'd read everything he could possibly read about fire charms instead of going back to sleep. 

They're supposed to be reading, or some such, but they don't. Draco doesn't touch the chocolates and instead they eat most of the bread and olives and tomatoes, and take their time finishing the bottle of wine. There's a record playing on the record player. They shift position on the sofa so that Harry has his back to the sofa arm and Draco's in-between his legs, cheek resting against Harry's chest. 

It's nice, and quiet, and Draco's a little fuzzy from the wine and the warmth from the fire. Harry's hand is in his hair. 

"Is there anything that's just a fantasy, that you don't want to do in real life?" Harry asks. He sounds a little drunk too, sleepy and warm. 

"Like what?"

"Like anything," Harry says. "Things you masturbate thinking about, but it's like… it's just a fantasy. You don't want us to actually do it. Or not all of it."

"Do you have one?"

"Yeah," Harry says. "But I asked you first."

"It isn't something I want us to do. It's not an endgame for what we do."

"I know." He keeps stroking Draco's hair. "And you don't have to tell me. I'm just a bit drunk and I want to tell you mine but I'm a bit scared."

Draco, for want of something better to do, presses a kiss to the centre of Harry's chest. "My dick's even smaller in mine. Barely a dick at all."

"It can be any size you want in a fantasy."

"It's smaller," Draco says. "And I'm your piglet."

"You're my piglet now."

"No," Draco says. "I'm not me in this. I'm your pet. All the time. I don't think I even remember being me anymore. I don't work or go out or take a break to read a book. I'm just your piglet. An animal. I don't think I even remember how to talk anymore." He keeps saying _I don't think_ , but Draco knows. He knows he doesn't remember how to talk anymore. Not in this fantasy. "I don't wear clothes."

"Well," Harry says. "Piglets don't wear clothes."

Draco's little cock is jutting out, his trousers a little tent over his tiny cock. There's no way Harry can't see how this is turning him on. He flushes even more. 

"Go on," Harry says. 

"I sleep in my pet bed. I don't even remember how to sleep in a normal bed. I don't eat at the table."

"Piglets don't," Harry says matter-of-factly, but Draco can feel Harry's erection pressing against the small of his back. "Do you eat from bowls on the floor?"

"More like a trough," Draco says. He knows he's bright red. "You've put me in a collar. It's got a bell on it. And your friends… they know I'm your piglet. They come around and I'm there and I'm so far gone from being me that I don't even know to be humiliated anymore. I'm just an animal."

"Naked and with a tiny, tiny cocklet," Harry says. "What else is there? What's the bit you can't tell me?"

"I'm soft," Draco says, after a while. "I'm soft all over. You don't ever tell me that I shouldn't be hungry or that I can't have more sweet things. You can't even see my little cocklet because of how big my tummy is."

"You're fat," Harry says. 

"Yeah," Draco says. "And it's lovely, being that soft."

"I can imagine," Harry says, and maybe he can, because he's reaching down and cupping Draco's little dick through his trousers. "My lovely round piglet."

"You keep me on your cock most of the time," Draco says, as Harry starts to unzip Draco's trousers and push them down so that his little dick is freed. "Warming your cock even when you've got guests. You don't make me come. You just let me rub myself off on something whenever I need to. I don't use my hands. You probably laugh about it with your friends but I barely understand what you're saying anymore. Just tone of voice."

"You're just an animal," Harry tells him, cupping Draco's balls in his hand. "And animals don't use their hands to come. Is there anything else?"

"Do you remember when you took me to the bar, and you told that man to come on my tits?"

There's a pause. "I remember."

"They're softer too," Draco says, in sheer humiliation. "I'm bigger everywhere."

"Do I come on them?"

"Yes. I recognise some commands but I don't think I understand the words. Just the sounds. But I know when you want me to sit back and come on me. It happens a lot."

"You'd be so lovely to look at, my piglet covered in my come." Harry curls his fingers around Draco's little cocklet. He kisses Draco's temple. "There's nothing stopping you, you know, from having some of what you want."

"I know," Draco says, as Harry plays with his dick. "I just don't want it all together like that. It's a fantasy in and of itself."

"We can talk about it, though," Harry says. "Not about doing it, unless you want to. But like this. We can talk about it. Use it to make us both come."

"Thank you," Draco says. He rocks his hips up into Harry's fist, his little dick almost lost within Harry's fingers. He's so close to coming just from talking about his strange little fantasy of being Harry's piglet forever. "Love it when you call me piglet."

"I know you do. I know you love it."

Draco wants to come. He wants to come imagining it, imagining being so far removed from his life right now that he's just an animal for Harry to own. A piglet with endless sweet treats and a tiny little nub of a cock he can rub off on the furniture whilst Harry keeps him on a lead, his little collar bell ringing. 

"Are you going to come for me, Piglet? Come on, Piglet. Show me how much you love thinking about this. Being my good pet."

Draco comes between one breath and the next, pulsing into Harry's willing fingers. He closes his eyes while he gets his breath back. Harry keeps his hand wrapped loosely around Draco's cock, and Draco trembles with it. 

It's a while before he speaks again. "What's your fantasy?"

"I don't--" Harry loosens his fingers from around Draco's dick. There's a long pause. "When you look after me, you know. Like you're going to. Like you said you would when we go to Scotland. I don't think it's sexual. It might be sometimes. But it's just this weird thing I need, and this is like, the sexual part of it? And that bit's a fantasy. At least for now."

"All right," Draco says. "Whatever you need."

"Both of our fantasies are about losing ourselves and being happier for it," Harry says. 

"They're not real," Draco says. "Fantasies don't hurt people. You can come thinking about whatever you want to. It doesn't mean you don't want the rest of your life. I promise you."

"You look after me," Harry says, and his fingers are still cupping Draco's little cock. "You treat me like a little boy and I don't have to worry about real life at all. It doesn't even cross my mind. The world goes on without me. It just… keeps on turning. And you provide everything I need. You feed me and you wash me and you get me dressed and you read me stories." There's a pause. He swallows. Draco can feel the tension in his body. "You change my nappies. Every bit of the day is just easy and nice. That's all right, right?"

"Darling," Draco says. "Of course I'll look after you."

"I'm sorry," Harry says. "I know I shouldn't want this."

Draco shifts position, so that he's curled up against Harry's side, his dick pressed up against Harry's thigh. He cups Harry's face in his hand. "It doesn't hurt anyone," he says. "It hurts nobody and it's kind to you. It's all right to want it."

"When I get hard, you just touch me until I come," Harry says. 

There isn't much to Harry's fantasy that isn't just him being looked after, and Draco considers for a moment the realisation that for Harry, being looked after by someone else is a fantasy he considers impossible. 

"You'll be such a good little boy for me," Draco says softly. "I know you will."

Harry makes a sharp, desperate noise in the back of his throat, almost like a sob, and Draco reaches for him then, pulling him into a hug. 

"My good little boy," Draco says again, and Harry shudders in his arms, burying his face in Draco's neck. "I'm going to look after you," he says. "This isn't impossible. This is a fantasy you can have."

"How can I want both these things? To be in charge of you and this as well?"

"We work it out," Draco says. "We'll take it as slowly as you want. We'll do whichever bits of it you want and at whatever speed. This isn't like mine. I don't want mine in real life. You do. You want it and I can give it to you."

That desperate, cut-off noise that Harry makes really is a sob, and Draco can't help but wonder how long Harry's been dreaming of this, needing it and believing he couldn't ever be looked after like he wants. Believing he couldn't ever be loved like that. 

"It's all right," Draco says, stroking Harry's back. "I'll look after you. I've got you. It's all right, my darling. It's all right."

And Harry, lost for a minute in himself, cries into Draco's shoulder. 

***

Harry stays that night, curling up in Draco's bed with his hand thrown over Draco's chest, anchoring him close. They'd talked about something and nothing for a while after they'd come up from air after Harry's crying jag, washing up the wine glasses and clearing up after themselves. Draco had put his box of chocolates into the cupboard for another day, and Harry had busied himself thumbing through one of the bookshelves in the sitting room to give them both a little space. Draco had dreaded Harry leaving, convinced that if he went, it would feel like the evening had never happened, but Harry doesn't make a move to leave, and in the end, Draco had asked him to stay and loaned him a pair of pyjamas. 

"Tell me it's all right," Harry says quietly, once they've turned the lights off. "Tell me it doesn't change anything."

"It changes nothing," Draco says. "You're still very important to me. This is still very important to me."

"I don't cry," Harry says. 

"Neither do I." 

"It just--"

Draco rolls over and slides his hand into Harry's. "I'll look after you," he says. "We'll look after us. We'll both get what we need."

There's so long a pause that Draco's half-convinced Harry's fallen asleep. 

"I love you," Harry says, finally, and Draco squeezes Harry's hand and blinks his tears away.


	23. Chapter 23

Draco spends most of Friday in Scotland, making final adjustments to the complex castle wards. He's not expecting Harry to join him until the following morning, because Harry's spending his Friday evening having dinner with Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley. 

He writes his message to Harry twice before giving up and determining to send it anyway. He tells himself he likes humiliation, so that might as well include love notes sent late at night. 

_Harry_ , he writes, third time the charm. _I've made a change to the castle wards. They'll welcome you now, without need for invitation. Join me here in the morning when you're ready, my love. I'll be waiting. DM_

Then he prints the apparition co-ordinates underneath and sends the note off with a waiting Estelle, and hopes he's timed it well enough that it catches Harry at home instead of with Ron Weasley. 

He drinks a glass of wine standing on the terrace in the cold before going to bed, and doesn't let himself dream about calling the castle _home_. 

***

It's still dark when he wakes to find Harry slipping into the bed next to him. 

"What?" he says sleepily, turning on the lamp with a flick of his wrist. "Harry?"

"I missed you," Harry says, crawling over him and pressing a kiss to Draco's sleepy mouth. "My love."

Draco flushes. "It's not morning yet," he says. "The invitation said _join me in the morning_."

"I never did like following the rules," Harry says, sneaking his cold hands under Draco's pyjama shirt. "You changed your wards."

He hums. "Just a little," he says, which is somewhat of an exaggeration given the complexity. Harry's not wearing any clothes, and the part of Draco that's been bred to live and breathe etiquette shivers with the flagrant rule-breaking. 

"Just a little," Harry echoes, unbuttoning Draco's pyjamas. "Don't think I don't know how much work that must have been."

Draco doesn't say anything to that, because he doesn't feel like lying, and because the gift is tremendous. It's the only way he has of demonstrating just how important Harry is to him. 

"How was dinner?" Draco asks, even as Harry's nudging Draco up so that he can slide his pyjama shirt over his shoulders. 

"Very nice," Harry says, leaning in to press his mouth to Draco's collarbone. "I told Hermione I was in love with you."

Draco trembles beneath Harry's mouth, his hand going to Harry's back. "What?"

"I didn't intend to," Harry goes on, kissing his way down Draco's sternum with a detour to each nipple. "I tried to say you were just important to me, but I couldn't stomach the lie. So I just said it."

Draco shudders as Harry nips at his nipples with his teeth. "Harry. What did she say?"

"Not much," Harry says. His tongue laps at Draco's skin. "The usual things someone says when you admit you're in love with your childhood nemesis. Am I sure, am I okay, am I sure I'm not under an enchantment."

"You're not, are you?"

"No," Harry says. His fingers catch in the waistband of Draco's pyjama trousers. "Let me suck you off. I want your cock in my mouth."

"It's not much of a cock."

Harry presses his fingertips into Draco's hips, sliding his trousers down. "It's enough for me," he says. 

Draco rolls his hips up and helps Harry get rid of his pyjamas over the side of the bed. Harry settles in-between Draco's legs and cups Draco's balls in his hand. 

"You're the best thing I've ever seen in my life," Harry goes on, and Draco feels drunk with it, half-awake and drowning in how much he feels. "I know you get off on me telling you how useless your cock is—" to prove his point, Draco's cock jerks a little at the compliment — "but you've got to know, you've got to know, Draco, that it's fucking perfect. You're perfect."

"Harry—"

"No," Harry says. "I love you. I _love you_."

Draco doesn't cry. He doesn't. But he does well up at the intensity in Harry's expression. He blinks the tears away. He can't say it back even though it feels like it's seeping out of every pore. He slides his hand into Harry's messy hair, stroking at his scalp. 

"Let me suck you off," Harry says. "Please let me suck you off."

"Of course," Draco says. "You know I'm yours."

"Property of the House of Potter," Harry says, and he leans in so that he can take Draco's small cock in his mouth, and suck him off. 

Draco shudders beneath Harry's mouth, hands in Harry's hair, hips pressed up to meet Harry's mouth. He cries out into the soft lamp-light of his McGonagall-themed bedroom, and Harry just sucks him harder. 

He comes, finally, head tipped back on the pillows, Harry's tongue lapping at the underside of his cock, and it feels like a dream. 

Afterwards, Harry settles himself next to Draco, and wraps an arm around Draco's chest. 

"My pyjamas," Draco says weakly. 

"Shhh," Harry says. "I'm about to ask if I can come on your face."

Draco goes abruptly quiet. 

"Well? Can I?"

"Of course," Draco says. 

"My best piglet," Harry says. "So filthy, aren't you? Desperate to be covered in come."

Draco's only just come but his cock makes a pitiful attempt at a jerk anyway. 

"What are you?" Harry asks lazily, leaning over to pinch at Draco's nipples. 

Draco knows the answer to that one. "A come rag."

"That's right. Just a rag for my come, aren't you? Useless for anything else."

It's the middle of the night and Draco hasn't quite got it in him to get hard again quite so soon, but this time it isn't him that Harry's getting off. It's Harry himself, his hand circling his cock. 

Draco swallows down a breath. "That's right, sir," he says, and Harry's hips buck forward. "That's all I am, something for you to come on."

"A piglet," Harry says. "A come-hungry piglet."

"Your come-hungry piglet," Draco says. "Yours, sir."

Harry shudders with it. Draco reaches for him, a little unsure if he should, a little careful, but Harry kisses him back, breathless against his mouth. He kisses him, again and again, and Draco can feel Harry's hand moving on his cock, bumping up against his thigh, but Harry doesn't pull away. He just kisses him over again. The butterflies in Draco's chest feel alive. 

"Going to come," Harry says, after a while. "Want to come on you."

Draco just nods. "You can," he says. "I want you to."

Harry pulls away, kicking the covers out of the way so that he can straddle Draco's chest. "Going to come on your face," he says. "Going to make such a mess of you, Piglet, going to mark you mine."

Draco runs his hands over Harry's thighs. "Mark me," he says, and it sounds like he's begging. "Mark me up."

And Harry, with a breathless rock of his hips, does. Come stripes Draco's face, catching his lips, his cheeks, his jaw. 

Draco closes his eyes and takes it all. 

A while later, Harry passes Draco his pyjamas and rearranges the sheets so that they're in some semblance of order, just like Draco likes. 

"Thank you," Draco says, and Harry just smiles at him. He's putting on a pair of pyjama trousers, and he's doing it because Draco would like him to, and Draco really does love him. Maybe one day soon he'll trust himself to say it out loud. 

"Thank _you_ ," Harry says, climbing back into bed. He arranges himself, untidily limpet-like, at Draco's side. 

Draco ensures the covers are pulled up over them, and turns the lamp off. 

"By the way," Harry says, under cover of darkness. "Hermione asked us both to come to dinner. I said I'd let her know if we were free."

Draco's heart pounds. "Well, I'm sure you're aware my diary is overflowing with prior engagements."

"It's a reason to say no," Harry says. 

Draco stills. "Do you want me to?"

"No," Harry says. "I'd like you to say yes, but it doesn't have to be now if you're not ready. It can be later."

"Will Ron Weasley be there?"

"I imagine so," Harry says. "He lives there. They share children, etc."

"I suspect his diary might involve a prior engagement."

"Possibly," Harry says, resting his cheek against Draco's shoulder. "But he'll have to get used to us."

There's a moment that stretches a beat too long. "Will he?" Draco says finally. "He's your best friend."

"We've all spent too long dwelling on the past. Maybe it's time to put it behind us."

"Might be easier said than done."

"Maybe," Harry says. "But you can't catch the snitch if you don't bother getting on the broom."

"You swallowed it once. Whilst falling. It was another reason for me to hate you an awful lot. I was absolutely obsessed with hating you. It was my number one hobby. For years."

"Just goes to show," Harry says sagely. He doesn't explain what. 

Draco's tired. It's the middle of the night and the wards recognised Harry and let him in. Maybe it's time for Draco to do the same. 

"I'll send Hermione Granger an acceptance note in the morning."

"Oh my god," Harry says. "You're so posh."

"Manners," Draco says reprovingly, "cost nothing."

Harry laughs. "Go to sleep," he says, and kisses his cheek. 

*** 

In the morning, Draco's been awake for a while before Harry finally starts to wake up, sleepily yawning into Draco's shoulder. 

Draco leans in and presses a kiss to Harry's forehead. "Morning, sleepyhead," he says. "Would you like me to show you your nursery before breakfast?"

It's another moment before Harry blinks completely awake. He nods, a little shy. 

"My good boy," Draco says, and when Harry smiles softly up at him, his eyes are bright.


	24. Chapter 24

Draco's careful with Harry, and not just because he can tell from the way Harry's trembling that he's about two seconds from pretending he doesn't want to see the nursery Draco's prepared for him and bolting instead. Draco's ready; he's planned it all out. There are socks and slippers and a jumper for both of them, easily accessible in the basket by Draco's side of the bed. He's already put his own socks on, even though he does not believe that beds are ever a place to wear socks. And then he goes around the other side of the bed and turns back the covers and kneels by the side of the bed to put Harry's socks on, and then his slippers, and then help him on with his dark red jumper. 

"I can do it myself," Harry says, but he doesn't sound particularly fierce about it. His hair's all sticking up on end. 

"You can," Draco says, "but I'm here to serve you." It sends a frisson of heat down his spine that he doesn't allow himself to focus on. "I'm here to look after you."

Harry swallows. "Yes," he says finally. "You are."

Draco puts his own jumper on then, an arran sweater that's much the same as Harry's except for the colours. Then he holds out his hand, and waits for Harry to take it. 

"Draco--"

"It's all right," Draco says. "It's all right, love. You can stop this at any point. We don't have to do anything. Just let me show you what there is for you, when you want it."

"I don't know how you can say it's all right," Harry says, but he lets Draco curl his fingers into his anyway, which might be half the battle. Draco's spent enough time this week thinking about how Harry seems to think that basic human touch is outside of what he can reasonably ask for. "It's weird as fuck."

"Language," Draco says, but it's gentle. "Come on, my lovely boy."

Harry follows him a little shyly, a little uncertain, a step behind Draco as Draco leads him down the quiet, carpeted corridors and up a staircase to another long gallery of paintings and doorways. Even Draco, growing up in the manor with its endless rooms, finds the sheer endless nature of the castle a little daunting. So much of is closed up, what leftover furniture remains covered in dust sheets and endlessly waiting for another life. He stops, half way down the long gallery, between a portrait of a laird in full highland dress and a huge coat of arms over a fireplace. There's a doorway here, but Harry's eyes glance past it at first, looking up at Draco in confusion. 

"It's all warded," Draco says. "No one will ever find it unless you bring them like I'm bringing you."

"What am I looking at?"

Draco presses his hand to the brickwork by the doorway, and the bricks start to move to reveal an archway, and another corridor beyond it. Harry's gaze keeps drifting past it, to Draco, to the long gallery, to the coat of arms above the nearby fireplace. "It's a notice-me-not," Draco says softly. "I think the strongest I've ever made." He takes Harry's hand and touches it to the brickwork, and Harry steps back in surprise. 

"Was that there before?"

"There's a doorway," Draco says. "Now you've touched the wall with me, you should be able to see the doorway when you come this way again. The wards are charmed to you and me. We touch the wall and the archway opens. Don't worry," he says. "If anyone else sees the archway - which they won't - they'll just see a cleaning cupboard. Brooms. Dust. Cobwebs. Nothing to hold attention." He waves his hand towards the archway and for a moment, the view shimmers, and it's exactly the view Draco's just described. A cleaning cupboard. Nothing to pay attention to.

"Where is that?"

"The cupboard? Forgotten under one of the staircases downstairs. I've warded that, too. No one will disturb it." He slips his hand into Harry's again. "Come on. Let me show you the way."

Through the archway is a corridor lined in thick, red carpet and dark red wallpaper. There's a window at the end, overlooking the flat, maintained gardens leading down to the old falconry buildings. In the distance is the sea. Before that are three doorways to the left hand side, and Draco stops in front of the last one. 

"Are you ready?" Draco asks. 

"No," Harry says, but he keeps his hand tucked inside Draco's. "Show me anyway."

"My brave boy," Draco says, because he can, and because the pink flush to Harry's cheeks is enough. This time he lifts their entwined hands and they touch the door together. 

There's a shimmer, and a breath of warmth, and then the door changes. There are words on the door this time, a child-like pattern made of toy bricks. It spells out 'Harry's Room'. 

Harry's breath catches. 

"Open the door, love," Draco says, ever-gentle, and Harry pushes the door open, and goes inside. 

"Draco," Harry says, a moment later. He looks a little wild-eyed. "What have you done?"

The nursery suite probably dates back generations, and Draco hasn't done much to the general layout. There's the main nursery, where they've come into, a playroom of sorts, and leading off that to the left, a nursery bedroom, and beyond that, the nanny's room. In the far right corner, there's a little pantry that Draco's enlarged into a tiny kitchen, with a connection to the cupboards downstairs. 

"Made you a space," Draco says, closing the door behind them. He makes sure not to stand between Harry and the door. "But it's just an idea. We can change any of it. Or all of it."

"No," Harry says. He's staring over the fireplace at the back of the room. There are moving pictures of hot air balloons and small animals and Harry's name spelled out in more of the same letter blocks from the door, except larger. There are rugs, and some of the old toys from before Draco owned the place, cleaned up and ready. There are book cases, full of Muggle books, and a new one that Draco's made specially, with some of his books from when he was little. They're not the actual books he owned; most of those Draco suspects are with his mother, some of the endless parts of his life that his mother has spirited away and never wants to acknowledge. He'd worn a glamour and gone to Flourish and Blotts, buying up the children's section and adding some of their small, fluffy dragons to his basket too. They're in a basket on the shelves; he hadn't really known if Harry had wanted toys, so much. He'd gone in blind. There are arm chairs by the fire, two of them, newly re-upholstered and sporting new cushions. And underneath the window to their right, a window seat that's more sofa than bench, all soft, comfortable cushions and layered with blankets. 

"Do you want to see the other rooms?" Draco asks, when Harry doesn't move from where he's still looking at the fireplace. 

Harry shakes his head. "Not today," he says, which is indication if indication were required that Harry is distinctly overwhelmed. 

_Don't bolt_ , Draco thinks. _Please don't bolt. You can have this. You're allowed it. You have permission._

He wills himself not to startle Harry off. Instead, he goes over to the window sofa and sits down. It's just as comfortable as he'd hoped it would be; he hadn't allowed himself to test it when he'd been working on the wards and preparing the rooms earlier in the week. 

"Why don't you come and sit down?" Draco asks, after another minute passes and Harry doesn't move. 

Harry turns around then, and to Draco's shock, he's crying, quietly and without inflection. 

"I'm sorry," Draco says, but Harry just shakes his head. 

“Don’t be,” Harry says, and then he comes over to the sofa and kneels over Draco and buries his face in Draco’s neck. Draco — a little uncertainly — wraps his arms around Harry’s back, and Harry presses closer, hugging him back. 

Draco resorts to stroking circles into Harry’s back, just to see if he’ll settle. He’s restless, breath still catching, shoulders heaving a little as he tries not to cry into Draco’s skin. 

“You’re all right,” Draco tells him, over and over again. “You can have this. It’s yours. You have permission.”

It takes a long time for Harry’s breathing to settle, for him to shift position so that he wasn’t kneeling up over him anymore, instead sitting down next to him and resting his cheek against Draco’s shoulder. 

“There you are,” Draco says softly, wrapping an arm around Harry’s shoulders. “There you are, my love.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, equally quietly, and maybe this wasn’t how Draco had imagined this happening, but regardless of that, Harry seems a little more settled. Like he’d taken the first steps towards finding out what he wanted, and learning he could have it. “I can’t believe you did all this for me.”

“You deserve it,” Draco says, after a while, and Harry shivers a little at that. “It’s yours. Whenever you want it.”

Harry doesn’t say anything to that, but he presses closer, and they stay just where they are, together, for a little longer in Harry’s nursery.


	25. Chapter 25

They eat a light lunch of cream cheese and cucumber sandwiches by the French windows in a small dining room Draco’s never eaten in before. There’s a light Ceylon in the pot, and for dessert, a small selection of cakes that Draco had chosen the previous day. Harry has been quiet all morning, ever since they’d left the nursery and — for want of something better to do — had settled in the sitting room with books and the record player. Harry has never really struck Draco as being the kind of person to enjoy reading quietly, but maybe he’d needed the mental space as much as Draco had. 

“I’m embarrassed,” Harry says finally, after Draco’s poured them both a cup of tea and added a splash of milk. “I’m embarrassed about how much I want what you’ve given me.”

Draco sits back down, and settles his teacup neatly on its saucer. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” he says. “It’s a nursery and it’s yours. Let’s not waste our lives distressing ourselves unnecessarily. Don’t be embarrassed about wanting to be looked after.”

Harry’s cheeks are flushed. “You said it was warded.”

Draco doesn’t react to the change in topic. “It is,” he says. “So heavily warded that no one will find it.”

Harry takes a bite of his sandwich. “Do you remember in first year, the philosopher’s stone?”

“How could I forget,” Draco says, “given that it was the first in a series of disappointments for House Slytherin.”

“Dumbledore was a great wizard,” Harry says evenly. “But not without his flaws.”

“Hmm,” Draco says. “What sort of teacher waits until after the decorations have been put up to splash out with the final, special points for his special favourites?”

“One who, perhaps, wasn’t all that invested in house unity.”

“Perhaps,” Draco says, since he’s had a lot of time to think about how what Hogwarts might have done differently to avert the fracture in their childhoods. “What was your point?”

“There were a lot of very clever wizards who tried to protect that stone, is what I’m saying,” Harry says, “and it still got stolen.”

“Initially by someone who had Voldemort’s head fused onto theirs,” Draco says, trying for lightness, but he’d been plagued with bad dreams for years about their first Defence Against The Dark Arts teacher and his awful secret. “Absolutely the stuff of nightmares.”

“Honestly,” Harry says, “you should try being the one who touched him and had him fucking disintegrate all over you, that’s more nightmarish. I think I inhaled that dust.”

There’s a pause. “Is this one of those moments where I’m supposed to laugh?”

“I’d quite like it if you at least smiled,” Harry says. “There’s only so much trauma I can respond to legitimately without trying to make it a joke.”

Draco reaches over and covers Harry’s hand with his own. “You always have to be special, don’t you?”

“That’s me,” Harry says. “The Chosen One. Comes with a side order of asthma attacks.”

Draco doesn’t know what they are, so he chooses to ignore it. “None of those people Dumbledore got to protect the stone were anywhere near as good as I am at wards. None of them. I am the best, and your nursery is protected. It’s safe. You’re safe there.”

Harry colours again. “Thank you,” he says, dropping his gaze to his plate. “Do you mind if we don’t talk about it for a bit? I just want to… get my head around it, perhaps.”

“Of course,” Draco says. “Is there anything in particular you’d like to do this afternoon?”

Harry glances at him. “How do you feel about an abrupt change of direction?”

Draco’s heart speeds up. “To?”

“Remember your fantasy?”

“Which one?”

“Your piggy one,” Harry says. “The one you told me about. Will you let me play with it?”

Draco will, quite honestly, let Harry do whatever he chooses. That’s part of the charm. But shame is already curling in his gut at the memory of his fantasy shared with Harry, the idea he masturbates to of being Harry’s dumb animal. 

“Draco.”

“Of course,” he says. 

“You’ll tell me if you’re not enjoying it?”

“Yes,” Draco says, although it would have to be truly dreadful for him to say no. Harry’s never stepped wrong before. 

“Good,” Harry says, and he downs the rest of his tea before standing up and picking up the plate of cakes. “We can eat these in bed.”

~*~

Upstairs in the bedroom, Harry sits on the edge of the bed, fully clothed, with the plate of cakes next to him. “Take your clothes off.”

Draco takes off his jumper, and starts to fold it up to put it on the bed. 

“Did I say you could put your belongings on the bed?”

Draco’s pulse thrums. “No, sir,” he says. 

“Put them on the floor by your pet bed,” Harry says, and Draco’s little cock is already hard at the idea of his furry piglet bed, all lined up by the wall. 

He folds his jumper and shirt, then his trousers, and finishes with his socks and underpants before standing back up, little cock already erect. 

Harry looks him up and down. “Do piglets stand up?”

Draco shakes his head. “No, sir,” he says again. His little cock jumps at the shame of it. 

“Get down on your hands and knees.”

Draco gets down on his hands and knees. He’ll be obedient until the end of time if Harry lets him. It feels like he’s cracking his very soul in two to let Harry inside. He wonders if Harry knows. 

“Are you hungry, Piglet?” Harry asks and he holds his hand out. There’s a small slice of Victoria sponge there on his palm, icing sugar dusting his fingertips. “Don’t talk. Piglets don’t talk.” He beckons Draco a little closer, a crook of his fingers. “Come here and eat your dessert, Draco.”

Draco’s little cock aches to be touched. He crawls forward until he can nudge his face against Harry’s hand. He gets icing sugar on his nose even before he manages to take a bite; it’s harder to eat cake out of a crooked hand than it looks like. The cream goes everywhere. 

“Lick up your mess,” Harry tells him, once he’s managed to eat the majority of the cake. 

There are crumbs and icing sugar and bits of jam and cream all over Harry’s hand, and Draco obediently licks and licks until Harry stops him. He’s cleaner than he was, but Harry’s hand is still sticky with jam and cream and sugar. 

“What a piggy you are,” Harry says, running his sticky hand through Draco’s hair. “Such a stupid, dumb piggy, aren’t you? Can’t think about anything but food and rubbing that tiny little nub of a cocklet on whatever you can find to get off on.”

Draco whines. Harry keeps stroking his hair, wiping off the lick-sticky jam and cream into Draco’s soft hair. Draco knows his face is a mess, and that there’s still sugar on his nose and around his mouth. 

“Should I let you on the bed for once, do you think?” Harry asks, smearing cream into Draco’s hair. “Do you deserve that, my stupid piggy?”

Draco aches to say yes, but he stays silent. His mouth hangs open. A dumb animal.

“Too stupid to know what I’m asking, aren’t you?” Harry reaches for another piece of cake, breaking off a piece of lemon cake and holding it out for Draco to eat. Draco tilts his chin up, trying to eat it off Harry’s hand, but Harry moves his hand away so that Draco has to follow it. “But you’re not too stupid to follow the food.”

Draco knows when to be obedient. He crawls onto the bed, following Harry’s little cake treat mouthfuls, until he’s lying on the bed with his head on the pillows and he’s licking cake off Harry’s cupped hand. 

“I’ve got you a present,” Harry tells him, pressing the remains of the lemon cake to Draco’s mouth so it smears across his skin. “Do you think a messy, dirty, stupid piggy deserves a present?”

Draco’s cock jumps. He’s leaking. A stupid, dumb animal. He’s dying with want. 

Harry holds his hand out, whispers something, and then a velvet bag is flying across the room and into his hand. “Maybe it’s less of a present,” he muses, untying the bow that ties it shut, “and more of a mark of ownership. Not that it matters to you. I don’t think you understand either way.”

It’s a collar, and not the one that they’d picked out together at random from the Magical Menagerie. This one is dark, bottle green leather, lined with wine-red velvet. There are two tags. One says _Property of the House of Potter_. The other is inscribed with his name, _Piglet Draco_. 

“Mine,” Harry says, as he spells it closed around Draco’s neck. “My Piglet.”

Draco whines again. There’s nothing for him to rub his cock against, and he really needs to. He’s naked except for his collar, cake in his hair and and smeared across his face. He can’t help it; he reaches for his cock. 

“Oh no you don’t,” Harry says, and he catches Draco’s wrist in his hand. “Can you stay still all by yourself or are you too stupid a piggy for that? Do I need to tie your hands to the bed?”

The noise Draco makes is torn from the back of his throat. He’s already crossing his wrists, holding them out for Harry to take, and Harry’s eyes are bright. 

“Blink three times quickly and the spell will break,” Harry tells him as he places Draco’s hands above his head, but he’s already spelling black velvet ribbon around Draco’s wrists and the headboard by the time Draco nods his acceptance. 

Draco tries to wriggle to see how much give there is, but there’s barely any. 

“You like that, don’t you, stupid piggy?” Harry shifts back until he’s kneeling over Draco’s thighs. “Being tied up like the dumb animal you are.”

Draco does like this. He likes it far, far more than he’d anticipated, given that it’s only ever been the stupid, overblown fantasy he’s masturbated to time and time again. Harry’s striking the right balance between keeping it fantasy, and making it real. 

“Look how hard that teeny, tiny little nub of a cocklet is,” Harry says, and he’s even remembered how much smaller Draco is in this fantasy. Barely there at all. All the better for humiliating him with. “And nothing to rub off against.” He smiles. Draco aches with how much he wants what Harry’s giving him, even as Harry’s reaching behind him for another slice of cake, this time Black Forest gateau. “But I didn’t forget. My stupid piggy lives to eat.”

Harry leans forward then, and holds the cake by Draco’s ear, so that Draco has to twist to try and eat it from Harry’s cupped hand. The layers are already going everywhere. The cake’s rich and alcoholic and full of cream. He’s making such a mess. 

“Nothing in your life but eating and coming, is there, my piggy?” He presses his hand closer, until he’s smearing cake over Draco’s nose and chin and cheeks. “My lovely, stupid, soft piggy.”

Draco tries to lick the remains of the cake from Harry’s hand, but Harry moves his hand away so that he can rub his hands together, cake smushing between his fingers, and then run his hands down Draco’s chest. He stops to pinch Draco’s nipples, and then down over his belly, only coming to a halt by his little cock. 

“So soft everywhere, aren’t you, my piggy? Thighs. Bum. Belly. Tits.” He keeps running his hands over Draco’s skin, down to his thighs, up over his stomach and up to his nipples again. He’s taking his clothes off as he touches Draco. “Cake-soft.”

Draco gives into it, this fantasy where he’s soft and stupid and nothing but an animal, a pig on Harry’s lead, and he tips his head back, groaning as Harry touches him, as Harry, naked now, crooks his finger in the loop on his collar, giving it a pull. 

“Going to come on your tits, piggy,” Harry’s saying, but Draco’s stopped listening. He’s stopped listening to anything, losing himself in Harry’s hands on him, eyes closing as Harry smears cake over his skin. In his head he’s just what Harry’s telling him he is: a stupid, dumb pig, soft all over, living for nothing but cake and Harry’s touch. His cock’s so small it’s barely there at all, useless and tiny, and Harry owns him. He _owns him_ , _Property of the House of Potter_ , and it’s everything, and Draco, just like that, with no one touching him, his hands tied above his head, is coming. 

He comes, untouched, and it’s everything. Harry kneels over him and masturbates until he’s coming too, all over Draco’s tits like he promised, and Draco’s skin feels like it’s on fire. 

He doesn’t open his eyes until afterwards, when Harry’s untying his hands and pressing his thumbs to the insides of Draco’s wrists. Harry’s mouth follows his thumbs, a slow kiss pressed to each of Draco’s hands. 

“You came without me touching you,” Harry says, even as he’s lacing his fingers through Draco’s. 

Draco feels a little dazed still, a little removed. He nods, face slack. Harry leans in and presses his mouth to Draco’s. His tongue touches Draco’s. When he sits back there’s icing sugar on his chin. 

“Clean me up,” Draco asks, voice rough. He clears his throat. 

Harry’s smile is a little lopsided. His spell, when it comes, feels like a warm breeze over Draco’s skin. “Better?”

“Cleaner,” Draco meets Harry’s eyes, then ducks his gaze. “Hold me,” he says. “Just hold me for a bit.”

“Always,” Harry says. He pulls the blanket up from the bottom of the bed and over them both, wrapping his arms around Draco’s chest. “Whatever you need.”

Draco shifts closer, and lets himself breathe in, then out. Harry breathes with him, the two of them naked but for Draco's collar, and pressed together. It’s the closest he’s ever been to anyone in his life. 

“Did I get it right?” Harry asks later, when Draco’s drifting in and out of sleep, even though he’s never gone to sleep naked and he should get up and put some pyjamas on. “Was that what you wanted?”

Harry sounds nervous and a little unsure. 

Draco opens his eyes. “My beautiful boy,” he says, without letting himself think about what it is he’s saying. “Of course it was what I wanted. My beautiful, beautiful boy.”

Harry’s smile is still uncertain. “Draco. Don’t fuck with me.”

Draco rather suspects no one’s called Harry beautiful in his life, but he is. He strokes Harry’s messy hair, brushing it to one side so that he can touch his thumb to Harry’s scar, then down over his cheek until he can cup Harry’s face in his hand. “Beautiful.”

“Don’t.” He tries to turn away. 

“I’ll build you that nursery a thousand times until it’s what you need it to be,” Draco says. “I promise you, I’ll help you find that space you need.”

“We weren’t talking about that.”

“I know,” he says. “I just need you to know.”

Harry shifts so that he’s hiding his face in Draco’s neck. It’s a while before he says, _I know_. 

They stay like that, wrapped together under the blankets, for the longest time.


	26. Chapter 26

Sunday dawns bright and clear, so after breakfast Draco suggests going for a walk. He’s a little hesitant about it given that they don’t tend to spend their time together doing things like taking walks, but Harry is enthusiastic about it from the off, even asking cheerfully if it’s still muddy enough for wellies. 

“Do you have wellingtons?” Draco asks, because he’s fairly certain he doesn’t, even if he wasn’t planning on wearing the same black boots he always wears when he’s working and has to take the lay of the land from the outside to work on incompetent people’s wards. He’s done nothing else to prepare for their walk other than put on a thicker jumper under his warm coat and find a scarf. 

“There’s bound to be a pair here somewhere,” Harry says, quite cheerfully for someone who’s talking about getting muddy. Draco has never sounded that cheerful about mud in his life. “Do you think we’ll need them?”

“Probably not,” Draco says, and then has to watch as Harry sits on the floor in what was clearly at some point a boot room, and laces up some kind of walking boot. 

“You never know,” Harry says. “Where are we going?”

“I thought we could go through the woods,” Draco says, trying to make it sound as if he hadn’t been laying in bed that morning planning a route that went down by the Quidditch pitch and out through the woods to the sand dunes and the beach, then back up through the gardens to the house. “Maybe go and see the sea.”

Harry looks more enthusiastic than Draco had expected. “Bloody love the sea,” Harry tells him, clambering to his feet. “Never really got to go when I was little, they always left me at home when they were going on holiday.”

“By yourself?” Draco asks carefully, as Harry pulls his jumper over his head and messes up his already messy hair. Draco has long curbed the physical urge to reach out and tidy him up, but the mental urge is likely to always be there. 

“No,” Harry says, doing up his coat. “They’d usually leave me with Mrs Figg. She was the squib I told you about, remember? Had nine thousand cats.”

“Was she nice to you?” Draco keeps trying to find these little pockets of kindness in Harry’s childhood, and he isn’t entirely sure why, given that they aren’t there. 

“She mostly knew how to be nice to cats,” Harry says, heading for the door. “I think she liked me, though. It made a change. Didn’t mean it was necessarily a fair exchange for a holiday by the sea.”

“No,” Draco says, and - not for the first time - he thinks that Dumbledore got what was coming to him in the end. He hopes that hand of his hurt. 

“Did you spend much time here?” Harry asks, once they’re outside and wandering through the woods and past the Quidditch pitch. “When you were setting up the wards?”

“Not more than necessary,” Draco says. It’s cold outside, but bright and clear, the sun glinting down through the trees. 

Harry glances at him. “Any reason for that? It’s glorious here.”

Draco affects what he hopes is a casual shrug. “At least in London I can remember other people exist, even if I don’t actually stop and talk to them.”

“Draco.”

“Too many fairy tales about beasts alone in castles, aren’t there? Didn’t want to become one.” He shrugs again. “Anyway. It’s hardly likely my father acquired this through entirely legitimate means. It’s still living off him even if he’s not here to see me do it.”

Harry nods. They’re tramping through leaf mulch. Maybe wellingtons wouldn’t have been the worst idea in the world. 

“You’re dying to say something,” Draco says. “You may as well say it.”

“You’re not your father.”

“He wasn’t all bad. He loved me, at least.”

“He did,” Harry says. He glances at Draco, then away from him. He reaches out with the back of his hand and touches it to Draco’s. “If you’re the beast in a castle, does that make me Beauty?”

“I don’t know.” Draco doesn’t understand the specific reference. “Does it?”

“I’ll tell you the story of Beauty and the Beast sometime,” Harry says. 

Draco swallows. “If it’s a book,” he says, “a Muggle book, then we could get it and I could read it to you. If you’d like that.”

Harry’s gone red. He won’t look at Draco.

“It’s all right,” Draco says. “To want that.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. Then, quieter, “No.” 

Draco doesn’t say anything to that. The wood’s thinning out now anyway as they get closer to the sea. The air smells saltier. The wood has lost itself to a see of pine trees. When the pines come to an end, they’re in the dunes, miles of wilderness and windswept beaches and driftwood and nothing but them and the sound of the sea. 

“Do you want to sit for a bit?” Draco asks. He takes his scarf off and transfigures it into a tartan blanket, not giving Harry a chance to say no. He casts a warming charm on it as he sits down, and pats the blanket next to him, an invitation to Harry that he hopes he won’t turn down. 

Harry eventually obliges, dropping down onto the blanket next to him. 

“We should talk about it, you know,” Draco says. 

“Should we?” Harry asks. He draws his knees up, wrapping his hands around them. “Which part?”

“All of it, probably,” Draco says. “But particularly the bits that are stopping you from allowing you to have what you need when I’m offering it.”

“You want my whole fucked up childhood?”

“If you want to talk about it,” Draco says. 

“It wasn’t all fucked up.”

“No,” Draco says. “Bits of it you were even happy for.”

Harry shoots him a sharp look. 

“You know,” Draco says, and he tries to say it carefully. “You could have had everything you ever wanted as a child. All the toys and love in the world, and you would probably still have grown up wanting what you want right now. You wanting a nursery isn’t some fucked up response to what Dumbledore did to you.”

“He was a great man.”

“Maybe,” Draco says. “And maybe what he did saved our world. But he used you to do it. His very own weapon.”

“Draco,” Harry warns. “Don’t.”

“All right.” Draco holds his hands up. “We won’t talk about Dumbledore. Not now. I just…” He stops. Looks down. “I want so much to give this to you but I don’t know how to, not in a way you’ll accept.”

For a while, they watch the sea. It’s relatively calm out there, if cold, and Draco refreshes the warming charm on the blanket, and on him, and on Harry. It gets rid of the worst of the chill. 

“How can it not be, though?” Harry says finally, just when Draco’s about to give up and call it a day and suggest they head back to the castle. “How can me wanting this, wanting what I do, how can it not be a fucked up reaction to not having it growing up? How can it not be?”

“I don’t know,” Draco says. “Do you think me wanting what I want, getting hard for the things I get hard for, do you think that’s a result of what happened to me? Because I don’t think it is. I think Voldemort could have stayed gone for good and I’d have grown up and got married and become Minister, or whatever it was that my father always thought would happen to me when I grew up, and I’d still secretly be getting hard for having someone humiliate me. It’s not some kind of retribution for being wrong-headed and a fucking disgrace. It’s just who I am. It’s just what I want. It doesn’t hurt anyone, me wanting it.”

“You’re not a fucking disgrace,” Harry says. “You’re not.”

“I was,” Draco says. “But we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you.”

“How can it not be connected? How’s it possible that the absence of something from my childhood isn’t affecting me trying to fill the gap now? Like, the only toys I had growing up were ones that Dudley had thrown away. I had to hide them in case they found them and told me I couldn’t have them. No one ever bought me one of my own. And now I want one.”

“I think we’ve established that the people you grew up with were not good people.” Draco chews his lip. “And I bought you one. Well, two, really.”

“Draco.”

“I saw them in the children’s section in Flourish and Blotts,” Draco says. “They’re dragons. I didn’t know if you wanted toys. I was guessing for all of it, really, but the toys more than anything. They’re small and fluffy. They sort of purr, really, rather than blow fire? But their wings move. I didn’t know which colour to get you, that’s why there’s two. An orange one and a black one.”

“You bought me toys.”

Draco nods. “They’re in a basket in the nursery. I want you to be happy,” he says. “I want you to have what you want and I don’t know to give it to you so that you’ll take it.”

Harry doesn’t move, and he doesn’t look at him, and he doesn’t say anything. 

“I’m sorry,” Draco says. “I think I’m just getting this wrong over and over.”

“One of the people Hermione made me talk to, they said this thing,” Harry says finally. “The trauma people? You remember? I told you she made me talk to people. Do you know what being hyper-vigilant is?”

“Not really. I can make a guess.”

“Close your eyes,” Harry says. “No, bear with me. And it’s all right. I’ll look after you.”

It takes a long time for Draco to close his eyes. “Now what?”

“Tell me what’s around you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Describe what you can see. What you’ve noticed.”

“I’ve got my eyes closed.”

“What you can remember,” Harry says. “What can you remember seeing?”

“The sea,” Draco says. “Sand, driftwood, dunes, the wood, the castle. What do you want me to say?” He’s startled, somewhat, by Harry resting his cheek against his shoulder. 

“I notice it all,” Harry says. “It’s been years and I still can’t help myself. You can open your eyes.”

Draco opens his eyes. Hesitantly, he wraps an arm around Harry’s shoulders, keeping him close, and Harry doesn’t push him away. “What do you mean?”

Harry hides his face in Draco’s neck. “Sea to the front, about 100 metres away, wood to the back, ten paces behind us to the tree line, beach extending out to the horizon to the north, south it disappears around a corner approximately one mile distant. Nobody to the south. Possible person to the north, possible dog walker. Approximately two miles distant. Dunes could hide someone. Backs to the trees, that could house another threat. No tracks in the woods, and anything there wouldn’t be you because you’ve barely been here—“

“Harry,” Draco says softly. 

“My whole life,” Harry says. “Playing with those stupid broken toys. Trying to be invisible and make no noise. Them locking me away. Then later on, always being the focus of one thing after another. I don’t know how people go about their lives and don’t do what I do, don’t fucking catalogue everything they can see and give it a risk factor. And I don’t know how to categorise this. I have no fucking idea how to give the fact you made me a nursery any kind of rating in my head at all, other than it’s terrifying. It’s scary and I don’t want it to be anything to do with me growing up but I don’t know how to do what I want to do. I don’t know how to be looked after and I don’t know how to be loved because I never had it. Not like this. I don’t know what I’m doing and I don’t know how to ask for it because I don’t know what I’m supposed to want.”

Draco wraps an arm around Harry’s shoulders. Harry presses closer and doesn’t pull away, so Draco holds him a little tighter. Other than his mother, Harry is the only human contact Draco’s had in years. His skin itches for touch. Maybe it’s just the same for Harry. 

“Apparently,” Draco says, after a while. “Apparently there are some people out there who remember their school days fondly. They just went there and made friends and did exams and left.”

“Surely not,” Harry says. 

“Apparently,” Draco says. “But when it came to us, they thought, _fuck that shit_.”

“Fuck that shit, huh?” Harry asks. 

“Fuck that shit,” Draco says. He still has his hand around Harry’s shoulders, but he shifts his hand a little so that he can stroke Harry’s jaw. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Harry says. 

“So let me read you this story you were talking about. About the Beast in the castle.”

“I don’t—“

“We’ll keep it separate from the rest of your life, if that’s what you need. Out here you can be whoever you need to be. Whoever you want to be. Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World.”

“Shut up,” Harry says. 

“Tales of your fame have spread far and wide,” Draco says, but Harry’s pressing closer and grinning into Draco’s skin, so Draco prolongs the joke because when Harry smiles it’s like Draco’s heart’s just opening up to let him crawl inside. “My hero, the saviour.”

“Malfoy.”

“Potter,” Draco says. “Out here you can be whoever you want to be. If you think it’s going to get mixed up and you don’t want that, that’s all right.”

“I like being in charge of you when everything’s normal.”

“I know,” Draco says. “I like that too.” He keeps stroking Harry’s face. “Do you think you might also like a place where you know that once you step inside, you’re not in charge? That the rules change, and you can set those rules, and you’re safe to let go? Because that’s what we can do.”

“What’s in it for you?”

The wind’s brisk in off the sea. It’s still bright. “Loving you,” he says finally. “That’s what’s in it for me. Getting to love you.”

Harry doesn’t say anything to that, but he presses even closer, and slips his hand into Draco’s. 

“Harry,” Draco says, after a while. His heart pounds. 

“I want that,” Harry says softly. “I want what you’re offering.”

Draco lets out a breath. “All right, then. Let’s make it happen."

Harry doesn’t let go of Draco’s hand until they’re back inside the castle.


	27. Chapter 27

Once they get back inside the castle, Harry finally lets go of Draco's hand. He'd been holding it the whole time they talked and all the walk back. 

"Let me take charge for a bit, will you?" Harry asks, even as he's leaning in and kissing Draco's cheek. 

Draco's mouth curves up at one side. He spells the door closed and locked behind them without looking. The charms are sensitive and complicated. Draco likes to feel safe in his own home. "Yes, sir," he says, once the final lock has slid gracefully into place. 

Harry rolls his eyes, even as his expression settles into something a little more serious, a little more in control. "Undo your trousers," he says, and after that he makes Draco kneel down and masturbate onto the entrance hall floor, all the time telling him how pointless and small Draco's little cock is, and how boring it is to have to put up with someone as dirty and fucked up as Draco. 

Draco loves every second of it. He comes on the tiles, and Harry sighs, then tells him he'd better clean up his mess. 

He reaches for his cloak to wipe up the worst of the mess, but Harry shakes his head. 

"With your tongue," he says, sounding bored.

Draco obediently presses his tongue to his mess and starts to lick it up, all the while grateful for how good a job the house elves do at keeping his home clean enough that this is just humiliating and not actually filthy. 

"You like that, don't you'?" Harry goes on. He comes and crouches in front of Draco, elbows to his knees. "You actually like being made to clean up your mess with your tongue."

Draco is too busy lapping up his come to do other than nod, but he can't miss Harry's laugh. 

"Imagine if everyone at school could see you now," he says, and Draco can't help but shiver, even as Harry's hand slips into his hair and presses him closer to the ground. "Imagine if this was the entrance hall at Hogwarts, and everyone was coming in and seeing you like this, licking the floor clean." His fingers tangle in Draco's hair. "They wouldn't know, would they? Seeing you like this, just how dirty you are. Half of them wouldn't even be able to see that you've got your cock out. Too many clothes on, haven't you? Too many clothes for my piglet."

Draco trembles with it. He's already getting hard again, and then Harry murmurs a spell and Draco's clothes are gone, and he's naked. Naked in his castle entrance hall, on his hands and his knees with his tongue pressed to the tile. 

"Now they'll all be able to see," Harry says, still stroking his hand through Draco's hair. "They'll all be able to see just how little a cock you have, Draco, and how hard you get just imagining them seeing your shame."

"It's so little," Draco says. "And I'm so ashamed."

"I know you are," Harry says, his hand stroking down Draco's neck and coming to a rest in the small of Draco's back. "Because what you want is shameful, isn't it? Spread your legs a little, Draco, and then anyone walking in can see you properly, see that hole of yours and your balls, and they can laugh at how little your cock is. Do you like it when they laugh, Draco?"

Draco craves it. He craves being this imaginary focus of laughter and attention, craves the burning desire to humiliate himself in this small, private way and wish it to be more. He spreads his legs, and nods. 

Harry's hand strokes over the curve of his bum and down to cup his balls. "I could immobilise you here," he whispers, and the hairs on Draco's arms stand up on end as Harry leans in and blows a warm breath across his skin. "Like a statue, like you're part of the furniture. Like you're nothing but something to walk by and ignore."

Draco gets hard fast enough to show Harry how much he does like that. He hasn't thought about this very much; immobility hadn't really crossed his mind until that time with Harry last week. But the idea of being part of the furniture, of being on display only to be complete ignored, well-- that turns him on. The humiliation of not being worthy of attention, of being walked by and ignored, of being on display but being nothing. 

"Everyone could see your shame," Harry carries on, breath warm agains Draco's skin. "Would you like that, Piglet? Being put on display like that. Being put on display and then ignored."

"Please," Draco says. "Please, Harry." He doesn't know quite what he's begging for, only that he wants it. 

"Would you like that?" Harry asks again. "For me to make you be a statue, or an ornament? Something to be ignored? Part of the furniture?"

Draco makes a soft, strangled noise in the back of his throat. _Part of the furniture_. "I want to be nothing," he says. "Please."

"Nothing, huh?" Harry keeps stroking his fingers over Draco's arse, and down to cup his balls again. "What does that mean?"

"Ignored," Draco says. "Used. Forgotten. A thing."

"A thing," Harry says. He squeezes Draco's balls a little. "I could put you in any position I wanted."

"Yes," Draco says. His little cock is so hard. "Put me how you want me, and make me stay there. Make me stay there. Please."

Harry reaches up and presses three fingers to Draco's lips. "Lick them," he says. "Make them really wet."

Draco obliges, little animal licks to Harry's fingers. 

"What are you?" Harry asks, taking away his fingers. He presses them to Draco's little hole, that last spot where his virginity remains and his real life worth outside of Harry is nothing. He strokes in little, lick-wet circles, but doesn't press in. 

"Nothing," Draco says, breath catching. "Make me nothing."

"You _are_ nothing," Harry says. "Draco Malfoy is nothing. You're just holes. A thing to be used."

And Draco shivers with it, with how much he wants this fantasy, this dream. 

"One day I'll fuck you," Harry goes on, "use you like you're supposed to be used. But not today. Today you're nothing." 

"Please," he says, and he's not sure which option he's begging for. Perhaps both. 

Harry just laughs as he gets to his feet. "Should have got the collar and the lead out for you," he says. "Remind you who you belong to."

Draco presses his forehead to the tile and breathes. He sometimes wonders if there's an end to what he imagines, a line beyond which he doesn't want to cross, but the truth is that they keep going beyond what he's thought up, Harry throwing him scenes that he just wants to gather up and add to his collection. 

"Hmm," Harry says, and murmurs an _accio_ spell under his breath. It's another few moments before the familiar whoosh of something flying through the air and hitting Harry's palm with a smack. "Stay," Harry warns, one hand to the back of Draco's head, Draco's nose still touching the floor. "Going to put your collar on."

He buckles Draco's leather collar closed, testing its tightness by sliding a finger beneath Draco's skin and the collar. He must be satisfied with it, because he clips the lead onto the collar. 

"Crawl after me," Harry says, already setting off across the hall, and the lead pulls on Draco's collar as he stumbles to follow him. Draco, crawling like an animal, a pet, like he's less than human. He leaves his pile of clothes discarded behind him on the entrance hall floor, alongside a little damp patch where he'd licked the floor clean of his come. 

Draco drops his head and crawls after Harry. 

Harry picks one of the sitting rooms to stop in, one they've been in before where there's a view of the gardens and a record player left over from the previous castle occupants. The carpet is red and is just as rough beneath his palms as the last time he was in here, doing this. 

Last time, though, Harry had wanted his cock warmed. This time he just leads him over to the standing lamp by the fireplace, and starts to wrap the lead around the upright, tight enough that Draco has to kneel at the foot of it, turned around so that his back is to the lamp. 

"People look at statues sometimes," Harry says, and he doesn't make eye contact with Draco as he arranges Draco as he wants him, Draco yielding to wherever Harry moves him. "They don't look at lamps. No one cares about a lamp." Draco's kneeling up with his back to the lamp upright, his hands behind his back, his little cock stiff and jutting out in front of him. "They just turn them on and off when they want them, and forget about them the rest of the time."

Draco's heart pounds. To be so ignored, to be _forgotten_ , it's enough to make him want to fucking come, and he hadn't even realised this was something he might want. Humiliation normally comes with being noticed, but not being important enough to notice was humiliating in and of itself. 

"Can you stay still by yourself?" Harry asks, and Draco's almost ready to nod his immediate yes, but then Harry continues by asking, "Or do you want me to make you stay still?"

"Make me," Draco says, almost before Harry's finished talking. "Make me stay still. Force me to."

Harry meets his eyes for the first time since their walk back to the house. "Immobilise you?" he asks. 

"Please," Draco says. "Please do that. Make me be good. Make me be nothing."

Harry strokes his hand through Draco's hair, forceful enough that Draco tilts his chin up to meet his gaze. 

"You know the rules," Harry says. "Blink three times and you'll break the spell."

Draco doesn't nod. "I know," he says instead, and then, without dropping Harry's gaze, he lets his mouth fall open, his tongue resting against his bottom lip. He doesn't say _use me_ , but he hopes him not saying anything at all is loud enough for Harry to understand. 

Something bright lights Harry's eyes, and he strokes his thumb over Draco's jaw. "Later," he says. "Later."

Draco wishes _later_ were now, but he knows he doesn't get what he wants, when he wants it. Anyway, he might want this more; being ignored, being made to stay still, naked and hard where anyone might see how small and desperate he is. 

Harry keeps stroking his cheek, even as he's murmuring the immobilisation spell, and a curious kind of stillness sweeps across Draco's skin, gentle but firm, and he's held where he is, eyes still on Harry's. The spell's warm against his skin.

"It's light enough outside," Harry says, looking away from Draco, and taking his hand away too. "No need to put the lamp on yet." And then he walks away from Draco like he's not even there, and Draco can't move, spelled still, couldn't even if he wanted to, but part of him longs for Harry's attention. He watches as Harry sinks down onto the sofa and takes off his boots. They're muddy, but they don't leave a mark on the carpet - another useful spell Harry's used without saying it out loud. Draco would be jealous, except his charms skills significantly outweigh Harry's, even if his non-verbal spells don't. 

Harry doesn't even pretend to look at him. He makes himself comfortable on the sofa, feet on the cushions like that's an acceptable thing to do in anyone's house, let alone one that isn't your own, and picks up a book from the coffee table. It's one that Draco had been using for the charms to hide Harry's nursery from prying eyes, although Harry probably won't know that from looking. It's just a heavy tome about warding charms, one of countless Draco has in his library. He waits for Harry to cast it aside, to flick through it without bothering to read any of it, but to his surprise, Harry starts to read. He reads as if he's alone in the room, as if there was no one in the room with him, as if he's not sitting across from Draco, who's on his knees and whose little, useless cock is stiff and jutting out, frozen in place. Draco, who's knelt at the base of a common standing lamp, hands behind him, leash wrapped around the upright, locked in place by both physical and magical means. 

Draco, who's not worthy of attention, who's naked and forgotten and nothing. 

Draco, who's reduced to being part of the furniture. 

Draco's breath steadies, and slows. He's nothing. He's not important. He's forgotten. 

He'd be hard even if he wasn't immobilised by Harry's spell, such is the humiliation of being so forgettable, of being discarded and ignored, of being nothing. 

As it is, he's got nothing else to do other than sink into the quiet, desperate shame of the moment, to find the space between his breaths, and settle into it. His humiliation, his shame. His nothingness. 

He breathes, and slows, letting time pass, and eventually he settles. 

***

He doesn't know how much later it is, but it's dark when Harry kneels in front of him and says his name. 

Harry takes the spell off with a soft whisper, and Draco, lost in himself, can't help but fall forwards, his face pressed to Harry's shoulder as Harry catches him. 

"It's all right, darling," Harry tells him, and he's stroking Draco's hair. "You were so good. You did so well. It's all right." 

It's only then that Draco realises he's started whimpering, soft little sobs into Harry's skin. He presses his nose into Harry's neck. His body feels locked in position, even though he's free; his hands are still laced together behind his back. 

"I'm sorry," Harry says, but he's got nothing to be sorry for, nothing at all, only Draco can't quite get his words out. He's stroking his hand down Draco's arm, down to his wrist and to his laced fingers. "I'm so sorry, darling, it's all right, don't cry."

Draco wants to tell him that he's not crying because it's been bad, but he's barely able to register that he is crying, let alone get his words out. It's just a few sobs. He feels like his body is in one place and his brain is in another, his voice somewhere else entirely. He just tries to lose himself in Harry's arms, tries to press forward even as Harry's helping him to unlace his fingers and set himself free from the lamp, the leash unwinding and catching him on the shoulder as it falls. 

"Let's get that off you," Harry says, going for the buckle of his collar, but Draco manages to shake his head. He clambers into Harry's lap, eyes screwed shut, and he wraps his arms around Harry's back and tries to ignore the relative stiffness of his limbs. He just wants this, to be held in Harry's embrace as he tries to capture his voice and his mind and his body all in the same place and time, and fit them all together again like they were before this. Before he lost himself in the space between his breaths. 

"All right," Harry says softly. "If you want it left on, you can keep it on. It's your collar, darling. You were so good," he says, stroking Draco's back, in between his shoulder blades. "So good for me."

Draco murmurs, pressing closer. He feels oddly uncertain, a little like he's at sea, but it doesn't change the fact that his cock's still hard. The tip's slick with pre-come. He doesn't ask for permission before he wraps his hand around his erection. He's small enough that his cock is almost lost in his fist, but he doesn't look down to see what he sees every other time he plays with himself; instead, he keeps his eyes closed and buries his face in Harry's neck. He wants this to settle him, to answer some questions about what just happened, to thread himself back together so that he isn't lost anymore. He wants to come. 

Harry wraps him up in a hug and lets Draco carry on touching himself, masturbating in Harry's lap like it's a treat. Draco's breath comes in ragged, torn off hitches, and he doesn't know how long he takes but it's over sooner rather than later, come sliding through his fingers and over Harry's thigh. He's made Harry's clothes a mess. 

"Sorry," he tells Harry after a minute, hiding his face in Harry's neck again. "I'll clean your clothes."

"Yes," Harry says, but his hand is stroking up and down Draco's back, and they're still on the floor by the fireplace, lamp above them. It's dark in here. "Are you all right?"

Draco doesn't answer too quickly, still trying to fit the last bits of his body and his mind and his voice back together in the right way. "I am," he says, and even though he doesn't want to, he tries to pull away. "Sorry for being so--" he stops. "Clingy."

"No," Harry says. "You don't have to go anywhere. I'm going to look after you. Warm you up. We could have scones."

Draco doesn't exactly understand how they could possibly get from Draco masturbating in Harry's lap to scones so quickly. There's a lot of things he doesn't understand right now and he doesn't quite feel equipped to judge why. Instead, he lets Harry help him to his feet, lets Harry wrap him in a blanket and curl up on the sofa together, lets Harry summon the scones and cream and jam and lets him make a hash of preparing one for him to eat. 

Nevertheless, Draco doesn't complain when Harry feeds him a sticky, cream covered half of a raisin scone, and he doesn't complain when Harry settles in next to him, arms around him, after the scone's finished and Draco's sleepy against his chest. 

It feels like a very long time later when Draco feels together enough to rub his nose over Harry's collarbone through his shirt, and say, "Did no one ever teach you the proper way to prepare a scone, Potter?"

"Clearly not," Harry says, stroking his hand through Draco's hair. "You back with me?"

"As much as I'll ever be," Draco says, but he doesn't move away. He's comfortable where he is, and at least this way, he doesn't have to make eye contact with Harry about how he humiliated himself earlier. 

"You worried me there for a while," Harry says, after a bit. "Thought I'd messed it up and hurt you. Did I?"

"No," Draco says. "I can't explain. I felt a lot. I couldn't stop it from coming out."

"Eloquent," Harry says, but he doesn't sound settled. He sounds worried, but like he's trying to hold it in. 

"It wasn't bad. I don't know how often I'd want to do it again, though. It felt like I was off somewhere else. Like I could lose myself, given the opportunity."

Harry's hand stays in his hair, stroking. "My darling," he says. "I'm sorry."

Draco closes his eyes. He's never been held like this. "I like it when you call me that."

"I'll save it up, then," Harry says. "Use it on special occasions."

"I'd like that," Draco says, still uncommonly tired. He closes his eyes. He'll just rest them for a moment. 

"I'll add it to my list," Harry says, and Draco murmurs his agreement, eyelids too heavy to open. He just needs a minute. 

When he wakes up, he's in bed, and Harry's next to him, asleep, the covers pulled up over them both. He didn't remember being moved, or his collar being taken off. 

He reaches over to slide his hand into Harry's hair. Harry groggily opens one eye. "You okay?"

"Yes," Draco says. "Are you?"

"Getting there," Harry says, and maybe Draco shouldn't be so forward, but Harry doesn't resist as Draco pulls him closer, and slides his hand over Harry's stomach, over his pyjamas. Possessive. 

"Good," Draco says. "Go back to sleep."

"Aye, aye," Harry says, but he arranges himself in Draco's arms comfortably before he closes his eyes again. 

This, Draco thinks, is going to hurt when it all goes wrong.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for waiting, and for the nice comments. <3

Draco wakes up first in the morning, and he has to extricate himself carefully in order not to disturb Harry from his sleep. He loses himself in the bathroom for a few minutes, morning absolutions to take care of, and then he dresses with an attention for detail, black trousers with the dark green stripe along the seam, matching black shirt. His underwear with _Property of the House of Potter_ stitched beneath the waistband. Socks. Polished shoes. Then his collar, quietly purloined from Harry's bedside table, buckled closed with sure fingers. 

And then, after a final check in the mirror to remove any imperfections, he goes back into the bedroom and kneels by Harry's side of the bed, and slides his hand into Harry's hair to wake him up. 

Harry comes to with a start, already half sitting up before he realises it's Draco, and it's all right. 

"Draco," he says, settling back down onto the pillow. "You startled me."

"I'm sorry," Draco says, stroking his fingers through Harry's hair. "I didn't mean to."

"How long have you been awake? You're all dressed and everything." His gaze sweeps Draco up and down, and then settles on Draco's collar. "And everything," he says, reaching out to touch it with his fingertips. 

Draco hopes his uncertainty doesn't show on his face. "I thought you might like to have breakfast in the nursery, little one," he says. "I thought the collar might help remind you that you're still in charge, even when you're letting me look after you like I will be."

Harry's gaze flits between Draco's, and his collar. "I hadn't thought of that," he says finally. 

"Neither had I," Draco admits. "But I think I'd like it too. I like the way things are between us, outside of the nursery. Maybe this is the way to help boundary it so that we're both comfortable. Do you think it might help?"

"I think it's worth trying," Harry says. His smile is a little uncertain. "Is that what's going to happen today? You're going to look after me?"

"If you'll let me," Draco says. "If that's what you want. If that's what you need from me. Property of House of Potter. That doesn't change."

"I'm scared." 

"I know," Draco says. His hand's still stroking through Harry's hair. "But maybe you'll finally get what you've wanted all this time. And we can stop at any time. Any time. You just have to say."

"You're still mine. Even when we're in there and you're looking after me. You're still mine."

"Yes," Draco says. He stops himself saying _always_ by the skin of his teeth. "All yours."

Harry expression looks a little awkward. "So what happens now?"

"I thought, little one, that we might walk over to the nursery and have breakfast together there, and then after that maybe you'd like a present, and I could read you a story."

There is a fleeting glimpse of something that looks quite desperately like want that Harry allows to show on his face for a fraction of a moment. 

"Little one?"

Draco very deliberately doesn't allow himself to move. "I'll call you whatever you want to be called. And you don't have to decide now. It can be a placeholder."

"You think of everything."

Draco leans in and presses a kiss to Harry's forehead. "That's the point," he says. "Whilst we do this, you don't have to think of anything at all. I'll take care of it all."

This time, the naked want on Harry's face is obvious. 

"Do I need to get dressed?"

"No," Draco says. "Just some socks and slippers and something warm to put over your pyjamas. I've got a jumper you might like."

"A jumper?"

"It's Gryffindor red," Draco tells him, still playing with his hair. Harry seems to like it. "Gryffindors are brave, aren't they? You can be my brave boy today."

"It's scary."

"I know. You're my brave boy, Harry. My brave, good boy."

"And we can stop whenever I want to?"

"Yes," Draco says, and he waits as Harry processes that, turns it around in his head. _Just say yes_ , he urges, although he's careful not to let it show on his face. _Just say yes and you can have this_. 

Harry looks at him. "Keep the collar on," he says, and Draco takes that for the permission it very clearly is, and smiles. 

He helps Harry out of bed, and then puts on his socks and his slippers, and pulls the red jumper over Harry's head. It swims on him, too big by half, the sleeves falling down over his wrists and the shoulder seams falling halfway down his arms. It makes him seem littler than he is. Then he takes Harry's hand and they walk through the castle to the long gallery, and the secret doorway by the fireplace, then down the hallway to the door that says _Harry's Room_ on it when he touches his hand to it. 

"Ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Harry says, his hand hot in Draco's. 

"Come on then, little one," Draco says, and he pushes open the door. 

He goes over to make sure the curtains are open, the dull morning light hitting the carpet just in front of the comfy window seat. Harry's taking it all in again, the fireplace with the moving pictures on the wall above it, the bookcases, the rugs. The armchairs in front of the fire. He keeps looking at the doors too, at the one that leads into the nursery bedroom and beyond that, into the nanny's room. 

"I thought we could have breakfast in front of the fire," Draco says, going over to the little pantry-kitchen through the doorway in the corner. It all links through to the kitchen cupboards so they won't ever be short of anything. He lights the fire with a charm, and hopes Harry won't notice how heavily warded the fireplace is; he remains terrified of fire, and even more scared of anyone else finding out. It doesn't do to let people have access to your fears. "Toasted teacakes and tea, I thought? Unless you'd like warm milk?"

"Tea, please," Harry says, in a small voice. He's standing in front of the older bookcases, the ones with the books that had been left in the castle when it was sold to Draco's father. Nearly all of the books had been unfamiliar to Draco because they were Muggle, but maybe Harry knew them from when he was little. 

"I'll make it," Draco says, because he wants to give Harry time to explore without being under Draco's watchful eye. 

He takes his time in the little kitchen, letting the water boil and then the tea brew without any additional encouragement from his wand. He can hear Harry moving around in the nursery, the little sounds of things being touched and moved and put back. He's over generous with the butter when it comes to the toasted teacakes, and by the time he's ready with the tray, it's been at least five minutes. 

"Breakfast is ready," he says, coming back in laden with tea and toasted teacakes. "Would you like to sit in front of the fire?"

Harry jumps, looking vaguely guilty as he clutches two books to his chest. Draco pretends not to notice, and instead, sets the little table by the fire for breakfast instead. 

"Come and sit down," he says, and the room is still a little cold despite the fire. When Harry chooses one of the armchairs, Draco settles him in with a blanket over his lap before pointing his wand at the other armchair and having it rest itself quite neatly touching Harry's. "Comfortable?"

"Very," Harry says. He still looks nervous, and is still clutching his books. 

"What have you got there?" Draco asks. 

"Nothing."

"They look like books to me," Draco says. "Would you like me to read you one of these after breakfast?"

Harry goes red, but he obediently hands over the books to Draco anyway, which Draco takes for a _maybe_. One of them is called _Beauty and the Beast_. 

Draco leans in and presses a kiss to the centre of Harry's forehead, catching the corner of Harry's scar. "We'll have a story after breakfast," he says, remembering the few times his mother read to him when he was small. "But first, tea and toasted teacakes."

The teacakes are buttery and hot and fully of juicy, delicious raisins. The butter runs down his fingers and down Harry's and when they finish the plate, neither of them look particularly full, so Draco replenishes it with the same amount again. It's worth it for Harry's smile as he holds his tea cup with licked-clean fingers. 

The fire crackles merrily and Draco chooses not to focus his attention on it too much, concentrating more on appearing careless of his surroundings to Harry. If Harry could come to be as carefree in the nursery then maybe all this will have been worthwhile. 

He makes them both more tea, and then, when they're both finished, he takes the tray back into the little kitchen, opening a cupboard door and slipping the tray inside, so it'll appear back in the main kitchen for cleaning. Then he comes back to the fire, stopping by the newer bookcase as he goes past, and coming back with the little basket of things he'd got from Flourish and Blotts. 

"I think it's time for a present, don't you?" he says, because in his little basket he has two small, furry, stuffed dragons. "Would you like your present, little one?"

"For me?" Harry looks a little uncertain, and there's quite a strong probability that he's readying himself to bolt. Draco doesn't allow his expression to change. 

"For you," he says. "Two toys for my brave boy."

Harry doesn't hold his hands out or respond in any way at all, almost like he doesn't have any idea what it's like to receive a gift for no reason, and Draco takes that feeling and boxes it up nice and small in his head and resolves to deal with it later. 

"Two little dragons," Draco goes on, taking first one out, then the other. The first one is black as night, the other, bright orange. They purr rather than breathe fire, but there's something comforting about the soft rumble of their purrs as he deposits them in Harry's lap. 

Harry looks at them in mute confusion. "They move," he says. 

"They purr," Draco says, and doesn't make fun of him for his muggle assumptions. "They're nice if you stroke them, too. They're very soft."

Harry obediently -- and nervously -- runs his finger down the back of the little orange dragon, and is startled when the dragon starts to purr, arching into his touch. He looks up at Draco with wide eyes. "They do purr."

Draco smiles at him. "Do you like them? They're yours now."

"All mine?"

"All yours," Draco agrees. "You can name them if you like."

"All right," Harry says, but he doesn't suggest any names. He just keeps running his fingers down first one dragon's back, then the other, and smiling when they purr. 

"Are you ready for your story now?" Draco seats himself back down in the armchair next to Harry's, and reaches for _Beauty and the Beast_. The other book is called _The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe_. Draco's never heard of it. He glances at Harry for approval, which Harry gives him with the smallest of nods. Harry is still holding his dragons, though, which Draco counts as a success overall. 

Draco starts with _Beauty and the Beast_ , and Harry stays still throughout it, his cheeks stained pink, his dragons tucked up under his arms. He keeps inching his chair closer to Draco's, though, and in the end, Draco stops reading and asks if it's okay if they move to the window seat so that Draco can put his arm around Harry's shoulders. 

Harry, still flushed, agrees, and trails after Draco to the window seat with his blanket and dragons in hand. He lets Draco tuck him into his side though, still in his pyjamas but with his too-big red jumper falling down over his hands. Draco finishes the story and asks Harry if he'd like to start the next one, which has virtually no pictures and will take an age to read. 

Harry goes an even deeper shade of red, and Draco doesn't push him beyond saying, "is there something you need, my love?"

There's the kind of pause where Draco can tell Harry's turning the words over and over in his mouth, trying to build up the courage to say them out loud. 

Draco waits, and he waits, and in the end, Harry shakes his head. 

"Not today," he says. 

Draco doesn't know whether to feel relief or frustration, but Harry is settled up against his side, and they've had an hour here together, a whole hour of Harry getting what he's always wanted and never had. "All right," he says. "Do you want to start the new book now?"

"Just a chapter," Harry says. "We can come back to it another time."

And that, Draco thinks, is progress indeed. 

He kisses the top of Harry's head, and opens the book to chapter one.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With great and genuine thanks for the comments and the kudos. They are much appreciated.

"I've been thinking," Harry says, later that afternoon. 

"Indeed," Draco says. Neither of them have said very much after leaving the nursery behind them that morning; Harry had disappeared to wash and dress and Draco had busied himself in the kitchen preparing lunch, which they then ate in a dining room neither of them had ever been in before. There was a lot to explore in the castle, and Draco had never really felt up to it before meeting Harry again. 

"About you, mostly," Harry says. They're in the red sitting room, Draco sitting and Harry lying down with his head pillowed in Draco's lap. It's perhaps the only time in Draco's life he's ever sat like this. 

"About me…?" Draco trails off deliberately. 

Harry tilts his chin so that he's looking up at Draco, who must appear sort of backwards and upside down from that angle. "I've applied to be a member of a Muggle club, if you must know. On behalf of us both."

Draco's hand stills in Harry's hair. "Potter."

"As far as I understand it, it's the kind of club where I could take you naked and in your collar, and no one would bat an eyelid." There's a pause. Harry's eyes are bright. "We obviously don't have to go. But I thought you might like the shame of it."

Draco's finger curls a little. _The shame of it_. "It's likely I would," he says, which hedges his bets one way or another. 

"I haven't taken you out in public for a while," Harry goes on. "I know you want people to see you. I know that there's a part of you that wants that."

For a second, Draco imagines being naked and in public, wearing nothing but his collar. "Yes. I want that."

"There would be no hiding that tiny cock of yours, would there," Harry says. It's careful, measured. "Everyone would see it."

"I'd be hard," Draco says. He touches Harry's hair. "All those people looking at me. Seeing me."

"'Course you would. Everyone knowing how tiny and useless you are."

Draco knows he's getting hard. If it wasn't for the cushion Harry's laying on in Draco's lap, he'd know. 

"Would you like that?" Harry goes on. "If I took you there so everyone could see? If I put you the lead and walked you around with that little, tiny cocklet jutting out?"

Draco makes a soft, whining sound in the back of his throat. He's not wearing his collar any more - he'd taken it off whilst preparing lunch, feeling oddly badly behaved for removing it without Harry's permission - but he wishes he was wearing it again now. 

"Do you think people would laugh at you?"

"Yes."

"My beautiful, humiliated boy," Harry says, and he reaches up then, reaches up and cups Draco's cheek in his hand. "My beautiful boy, Draco. Mine. So fucking mine, all right?"

Draco is oddly close to tears. He nods, his cheek still cupped in Harry's hand. 

"I was going to ask you for a nappy this morning," Harry says, still touching him. "But I couldn't. I couldn't say it out loud."

"I know," Draco says. 

"I know you know." Harry strokes his thumb over Draco's cheek, then his jaw. "I love you."

Draco just nods. He finds he can't say it out loud just now, this thing that he feels for the boy in his lap. He presses his cheek into Harry's hand instead. 

"You'd do it though, wouldn't you? Baby me." He doesn't wait for Draco to respond, which is good because Draco isn't sure he can. "I just want to know what it feels like. I just want to know if it's like I imagine." His eyes are so bright. "I've imagined it such a lot, Draco, you've got no idea. Sometimes I hated myself for it."

"It's just comfort," Draco says. His voice cracks a little. "You shouldn't hate yourself for wanting to be loved. It's just a nappy."

Harry stares up at him. "Will you let me take you to that club?" he asks finally. "Sit you on my knee and make you masturbate in front of people. Show everyone that little tiny cock of yours. Make them look."

For a moment, Draco imagines being naked except for his collar, masturbating in Harry's lap. "Will you feed me chocolates?"

"Like an obedient lapdog," Harry tells him. "My beautiful piglet."

Draco warms with the praise, with the idea, with the promise. "Please," he says finally. "Please."

"Put me in one of those nappies," Harry says. "I want to know what it feels like. Here. Now. I can't go on not knowing. And I can't not ask anymore."

"I want my collar."

Harry nods. "Get it and bring it here. Bring it all here."

The collar is on the bedside table and the nappies are in the nursery. It's the work of minutes to go and get them and bring them back down to the sitting room, and in the intervening period Harry has cleared away the tea things and stripped off his trousers until he's just in his underwear and his shirt and jumper. He doesn't look quite so confident as normal, but Draco recognises this Harry Potter. It's the one that occasionally gives speeches or appears on the front of the Daily Prophet. It's the mask he wears so that people don't find out what he's feeling underneath. 

"Which first?" He has the collar in one hand and the nappy in the other. 

"Collar," Harry says, and Draco obediently holds his hand out so that Harry can come over and take it from him. He holds it gently. "I like putting this on you."

If it's a reprimand for Draco putting it on himself that morning, it's carefully and kindly done, and Draco just nods, even as Harry's wrapping it around his neck and buckling it closed. 

"There," Harry says. "Now let's just…" he stops. "Come on, it's not a huge thing. It's just a nappy."

"It's just a nappy," Draco says. "It's just something nice for you to wear. You want it, and it's here."

"I want it, and it's here," Harry says, and then he's reaching for it. Draco rather imagines that it requires lying down to put on properly, but Harry doesn't bother with that. He steps out of his underwear and then puts the nappy on standing up, slipping it between his legs and then applying the tapes on either side. It was an actual baby nappy that Draco had spelled larger, so if it was too large he could spell it smaller too, but it seems to fit. It doesn't fall down at least, so when Harry's finished taping it closed he just looks at Draco with wide eyes. 

Draco holds out his arms and Harry presses forward into them. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" Which seems like a terrible understatement for something that Harry's wanted for so, so long. "It's just a nappy. It's easy to just wear it for a bit when you're with me."

"It's just a nappy," Harry says, but it's muffled in Draco's shoulder. 

Draco wraps his arms around Harry's shoulders, and hugs him. "How does it feel?"

"Nice," Harry says, without moving from where his face is hidden in Draco's shoulder. "Comfortable."

"Well, that's good," Draco says. His heart pounds. "What do you need?"

"This," Harry says, and so Draco gives him what he wants, and hugs him in the sitting room with Harry's discarded underwear by their feet, and Harry's hot breath against his skin. "I just want this. Just for a bit."

Draco can give him this, and this again, and anything else Harry wants. He rather thinks he could give it to him forever, which is telling in its own way. He strokes his hand over the small of Harry's back, brushing over the waistband of the nappy. "You never have to be ashamed, not with me. Not of what you want."

Harry hides his face in Draco's skin. "I like how it feels."

"That's good. Everything after will come easier now."

"Will it?"

"Yes," Draco says, because it had taken him long enough to ever ask for what he needed, and he'd asked it of strangers in a bar, his glamour spells practiced for years. It had led him right to Harry's feet. 

He'd end it all on his knees if he could. 

"I love you," he says, after a while. He's never said it out loud before. It's not the kind of thing his parents went in for. He's never had anyone to say it to. This time it's lost a little in Harry's hair. "My love."

Harry trembles in his arms. "Draco," he says softly. "Even now?"

"Especially now," Draco says. He feels somewhat shaky himself. "You know that I don't know how to love anyone, right? You know that. I don't know how to do any of this. I don't even know how to be someone's friend anymore. I don't know if I ever did."

Harry pulls back a little, enough that he can meet Draco's gaze. He shifts so that he can touch his hands to Draco's face. "Are you happy?"

Draco's mind is a well organised place; for a moment he flicks through memories of being on his knees, of his cheek pressed to the floor, of Harry's dick between his thighs as Draco fucked a cake, of all the chocolates and the pyjamas and the cups of tea. "Ever so," he says finally. "I'm ever so happy."

Harry's face brightens as he smiles. "Thank fuck," he says. "Because I've never been happier in my life."

For a moment, Draco finds it difficult to swallow. He finds it difficult to do anything other than stare down at Harry in gently shifting joy as the world changes around them, creating a space for them where there wasn't one before. 

Harry's eyes are bright. He slips back into Draco's hug. "I know what it feels like now. The nappy. I can ask for it again. It won't ever be as hard as the first time."

"That's good," Draco starts, but Harry is rubbing his nose over Draco's collar. 

"It is. Because I want to take you to bed and watch you eat chocolates."

"You don't want to wear it any longer?"

"No," Harry says. He brushes a kiss to the underside of Draco's jaw. The few inches of height difference is best when they're together like this. "Not right now. I want to masturbate watching you eat all the sweets you want."

Draco shivers. He's tired of overthinking what it is that he and Harry do together. It might not work for anyone else, but it works for them. "You could feed them to me."

"I'd like that," Harry says, and when Draco looks down, Harry's vanished the nappy. His wandless magic far outstrips Draco's, but Draco can't find it in himself to be overtly jealous. He'd put that one to bed a long time ago. Harry is spectacular in all manner of ways, not least in his erection, which is magnificent, and pressed against Draco's thigh. "Malfoy, my darling, will you let me take you to bed?"

 _My darling_. Draco's heart cries out with it. He gathers Harry up in his arms instead, sliding his hand into Harry's hair. "Of course," he says, and Harry's magic whirls around them as he apparates them upstairs, to Draco's bedroom, and their bed.


	30. Chapter 30

Harry comes to bed with a small, cloth bag with a drawstring tie. 

Draco eyes it -- and Harry -- with gentle concern. "I thought you were going to feed me sweets."

"I am," Harry says, which doesn't explain the small velvet bag, barely the size of Harry's palm, and the lack of accompanying sweets. 

Draco's already removed his clothes, methodical and precise, and has got into bed and pulled the covers up whilst Harry had excused himself to the bathroom. Even given everything that they've done together, and even knowing that if requested, Draco will humiliate himself in almost any way that Harry can think of, outside of that, he's still bound by same rules he's always lived by, of modesty and carefully constructed social graces, and that includes getting into bed with one's… one's boyfriend. Lover. He and Harry exist firmly within four walls; he's no idea how to take the two of them out into the wider world and define them accordingly. For now, he will accept the humiliation and have it sit carefully next to the rest of his polite, quietly ordered life. Up to and including covering himself up in bed when he's not wearing his pyjamas. 

Harry carefully places the small bag in the middle of his pillow. "First, I'm going to kiss you." 

Draco knows he's gone a little pink around the edges. He's been alone for so long that these last few weeks with Harry feel like an island of imagined bliss; surely at some point reality will crash firmly back to earth and Draco will be left, once again, with the same silent, neat, desperately lonely existence he'd had before he'd Harry had come back into his life. "Are you?"

"I am," Harry says, taking off the rest of his clothes and climbing onto the bed so that he's kneeling over Draco, who's still under the covers. "Because you love me, and I love you."

Draco's skin heats. "I do," he says, and the admittance makes him tremble. 

Harry looks gloriously and undeniably happy. It burns a satisfaction into Draco's skin that he hopes will never come out. 

"My darling," Harry says. "My darling. Shall we humiliate you? Make you feel everything you want to feel?"

Draco nods. _Please_. He doesn't say it out loud. Harry sits back on his heels, and busies himself with slowly and carefully folding down the covers so that first Draco's nipples are revealed, and then his stomach - so much softer now than it ever was before, so much pleasure and joy to be taken from indulgence and being indulged - and then, so terribly slowly, his little cock. 

"So small," Harry says, in seeming wonder. He stops folding back the covers and tucks them under Draco's cock and balls. "Such a terribly small little thing."

"Yes," Draco says, for there it is, just like Harry says. Terribly small. 

"Good for nothing, I expect," Harry says. "Certainly couldn't fuck anyone with a cock that small. Useless little thing."

Draco's whole body feels hot with embarrassment, but his little cock displays nothing except tiny, stiff pride. There's a little blurt of pre-come across the slit. Harry rolls his eyes in seeming disappointment, and swipes at it with the tip of his pinky finger before holding it out for Draco to lick clean, which Draco does obediently, despite his cheeks heating. 

"If I want to be fucked, I'll have to go elsewhere," Harry goes on, almost lazy as he runs his fingertips over Draco's hips. "Do you remember that, Piglet? You being cuckolded as I got satisfaction from a man with a real dick."

Draco remembers. He remembers being on his knees and masturbating into his wadded-up shirt as someone else took Harry from behind in the back room of that club, Harry's eyes fixed on his, the sheer depth of his humiliation causing Draco to come far too quickly. He'd loved it. 

"I'd do that a thousand times," Harry says, and he lazily wipes away another dribble from Draco's slit and holds it out from him to lick clean. "And each time you'd watch and know how useless your cock was. Except it's not a cock, is it? I'd forgotten. What is it, Draco?"

Draco knows the answer to this. "A cocklet," he says, cheeks burning red. "It's too small to be a cock. It's a cocklet."

"It is," Harry agrees. "Just a useless little cocklet." His smile is just dismissive enough for Draco's cocklet to jump a little in appreciation. "And you know what you are, don't you, Draco? Tell me."

"A piglet," Draco says. "Your piglet."

"A filthy little piglet," Harry says, and he comes up off his heels so that he can cup Draco's face in one hand, and lean in to lick at his lips. Draco keens, wanting more, but Harry isn't giving it to him. "Don't think I haven't forgotten your piglet fantasy, Draco." His other hand strokes over Draco's soft stomach. "My beautiful, indulged piglet. Given everything that you could possibly want until you forget everything else, isn't that right? Eating and rutting and warming my cock until everything's gone but that. Soft and round all over, isn't that what you dreamed of? Eating from a trough in front of my friends. That tiny little nub of a cock on show. Imagine being that humiliated. Can you imagine that, my piglet?"

Draco swallows. His mouth's dry. That is only a fantasy, it's never going to come true, but here in this moment, his secrets laid bare and Harry taking them and using them to embarrass him in just the way he wants, it feels like the perfect humiliation. 

"I'd have to put you in a harness," Harry goes on, his thumb stroking Draco's jaw. "That's what you do with animals, isn't it? Put them on a lead. Do you think all my friends would laugh at your cocklet? Because I do."

Draco nods. He can't do anything other. His little cocklet is dying to be touched. Harry's ignoring it. 

"My soft, happy piglet," Harry says, "so indulged." He leans in and kisses Draco's mouth again, too brief for anything other than Draco to moan and try to arch up to meet his mouth in another kiss, but Harry pulls back. "I'll indulge you, Piglet. I'll indulge you and indulge you and indulge you. Give you every depraved thing you want. Make you feel so humiliated you won't even need to beg for more. Show you and that tiny cocklet off in public so that everyone can see that you're mine. You're _mine_ , Piglet. Do you know that?"

"Harry--"

"Mine," Harry says again, and he reaches for the tiny cloth bag on the pillow beside them, and opening it up, comes out with a box of chocolates far bigger than the bag itself. "Look what I've got for you," he says, and takes off the lid. There are rows of exquisite, expensive chocolates that clearly cost the earth. 

Draco's mouth waters. The decadence. The exquisite, extravagant indulgence of Harry buying these for him, of shrinking them down in his bag, of him picking one carefully and holding it out for Draco to see. 

"These are all for you, darling," Harry says. "All for my piglet." But he doesn't touch it to Draco's lips. He presses it to the tip of Draco's tiny cocklet instead, so that it gets wet with Draco's humiliated excitement. "Can't waste this, can we? You might be a filthy piglet but you clean up your own messes." The chocolate is starting to melt, but Harry doesn't speed up. He holds the chocolate in the palm of his hand, and then out for Draco to take. "No hands," he chides, as Draco automatically reaches for it. 

"Sorry," Draco says, dropping his hand to his side. "Sorry, sir."

"Piglets lick their food up," Harry tells him, and Draco knows that. He _knows that_ , and the chocolate's already melting over Harry's palm, wet with Draco's pre-come, and Draco wants it. His mouth's watering. "We tied your hands before," Harry goes on, almost conversationally. He tilts his hand and the chocolate rolls a little, leaving smudges of melted chocolate across his palm. It's almost like he wants it to melt. "Do you remember that, darling? How much cake you ate with your hands tied above your head, my greedy piglet? How much cake you got everywhere?"

Draco remembers. He'd come without being touched. He's not sure he wants to be restrained today, and he thinks he can read the question that Harry's not asking out loud about whether to do it today. He doesn't beg for it, and Harry tilts his chin in recognition. 

"Not tying you up today," Harry says, stroking his hand down Draco's side. "Never unless you want it," he goes on, just touching his fingertips to Draco's softening tummy. "Never anything you don't want. Never, darling."

Draco trembles at _darling_. The language of love has never been his for the taking, but Harry gives him it freely, and there's a part of him that's gathering every dropped endearment and gently folding them into a box in his head, for later. 

"Are you hungry, Draco? Do you want your chocolates?"

"Please," he says. "I want my chocolates."

"As many of them as you want," Harry tells him, and he cups his hand, holding it out so that Draco has to press close and bury his face in Harry's cupped palm as he licks the chocolate up. It's melting on his lips and his cheek and he doesn't pull back, not even at the now-familiar tang of his own pre-come, slick across the chocolate from where Harry had held it to his cock and waited for him to leak. He's such a spoiled, over-indulged piglet. "That's right," Harry tells him, as Draco laps at his palm. "Lick that one up and you can have another. And another. As many as you'd like."

The chocolate melts on his tongue and the delicate caramel filling spills out, catching his lip and Harry's thumb. It's sweet and decadent and he savours the taste, just like he's always done, all these years when what he's loved has been limited, the cold chink of china tea cups against their saucers, a single bite of chocolate or of cake, pearl-handled cake forks resting gently against their plates. 

"I want to be softer," he says, thinking about those Muggles on the front of Harry's magazines, the ones with barely any clothes on, and the before pictures that Draco sees himself in, all sharp edges and hollow spaces where he wanted there to be sweet things and kindnesses and Harry feeding Draco in bed with his little cocklet standing to attention. "I don't want to look like I used to look. I don't want--" he stops, and presses his cheek to Harry's warm, messy palm. "We can both have what we want."

"Babying," Harry says. "Humiliation and sweets."

"You don't want humiliation," Draco says. "When it's you we're going to discover out how to do it so you're not embarrassed. It doesn't work for you."

"Not like it works for you."

"It works for me." 

"I know," Harry says, and he strokes his fingers over Draco's cheek. "You're so beautiful. Do you know that?"

Draco flushes. Oddly, he feels it, even with his cocklet on display and probably with chocolate smeared across his face. He nods, dropping his gaze. 

"Even though your cocklet's barely the size of my little finger," Harry says, still stroking Draco's cheek. "I can't wait to show you off at that members club. Show everyone that you're mine."

"Property of the House of Potter," Draco says softly, and Harry runs his thumb over Draco's lip. 

"My very own man," he says, and he reaches for another chocolate, and lets Draco lick it from his fingers, the chocolate melting over their skin. He offers Draco another one, and another one after that, and his fingertips are covered in chocolate and Draco imagines he is too; the chocolates are too warm not to melt the moment they're in contact with skin. 

A messy, indulged piglet. 

"Do you remember when you fucked the cake?" Harry asks, after another chocolate. "How you masturbated with it? How I smeared it across your face?"

Draco remembers. His cocklet leaks. His face burns with the shame of how much he'd wanted it, how much of a mess it had been, what he'd looked like in the mirrors Harry had conjured so he could see the extent of his humiliation. 

"Do you remember how I fucked your thighs as you smeared cake across your face, darling?"

"Yes," he manages, even as he's tilting his chin up for another chocolate. 

"I wish I could have fucked you for real like that," Harry says. "I could have just slid inside of you and fucked you. I'd do it in front of the mirror so you could have seen every last moment of it. How dirty you were. How depraved it was." Draco burns with shame at the memory, but Harry just leans in and kisses the corner of his mouth. "How much I loved seeing you like that. It doesn't have to be our first time like that, but can we do that? Sometime?"

Oh, gods. "Please," Draco begs. "Make me sit in it like last time, make me lie in it and masturbate with it and I'll get cake everywhere, all over my face and on my tits and you can fuck me then, put your cock inside of me and make me watch in the mirror. It can be our first time."

"It can be our second," Harry says firmly. "I want your first time to be special."

"That would be special," Draco says, half lost in imagination, in cake and cream and depravity and Harry behind him, sliding his cock inside of Draco and taking him like Draco wants. 

Harry smiles at him. His eyes are soft. "I can imagine it," he says. "You'd be filthy. Imagine if I came home one evening and found you like that, found you with your hands deep in a cake, covered in it. Masturbating."

Draco shivers. "Can we do that?"

"Yes," Harry says. "But not for your first time."

"You don't care about virginity. It doesn't mean anything. We've done practically everything but, anyway."

"It matters to you," Harry says. He kisses the corner of Draco's mouth. His kiss tastes like chocolate. It's probably more Draco than Harry, but he can't bring himself to care. He has to focus on what Harry's saying to him. And the truth is: Harry is right. Draco has grown up knowing what he'd been told of his marriageable value, and of the importance of saving himself for that marriage. Saving himself and finding it all for nothing had driven his mother to the continent, her dreams in pieces. "And if you'd like, we can go and visit your mother sometime."

Draco stills. His fingers tremble. "Harry."

"I didn't get it wrong, did I?" Harry sounds uncertain all of a sudden. "I thought if we were formalising this, you'd want us to go and see your mother."

 _Formalising_. Was that what they were doing? "Dinner with Hermione," he said, all of a sudden. "You told Hermione Granger about us and I accepted her dinner invitation."

"Wednesday evening," Harry agrees. "And Ron will be there, you know. He won't go away just because you don't say his name."

"He wore flip flops," Draco says, but his heart's not in it. To Harry, was this the equivalent of meeting Draco's mother? Meeting Hermione Granger and her family?

Harry strokes his thumb over Draco's jaw. "I'm declaring my intentions," he says. "I thought you'd noticed."

"It rather passed me by."

Harry's smile is crooked. "Would you rather we didn't go?"

"I like to meet a challenge head on," Draco says, but it sounds a little wonderstruck, even to his ears. "You want to meet my mother?"

"I've already met her. Just, you know, not as your…" he trails off. 

"Lover," Draco says. 

"I do love you," Harry says. He sits back. "Am I going too fast? I was always somewhere different to where Ginny was, although I never realised until after I'd said something like this and had to have it pointed out we were on entirely different pages. You'd think I'd have more of a clue what I was doing by now, but it turns out I don't. Not really. I don't want to get it wrong this time."

"You haven't got this wrong." Draco reaches up to cover Harry's hand with his own. They're both a bit messy now, and maybe he'll mind later on, but he can push it away for now. "I love my mother. I know you have a lot of very justifiable reasons for not liking my parents, but I can't hurt my mother. Not again. I broke her heart, Harry. I didn't even mean to but she was so… she believed so strongly that I was worth something. That even after everything I was -" he stopped. It hurt. "I was marriageable. And when the days just kept on passing and it was clear that I wasn't, that no one wanted me, she kept on hoping far longer than I ever could. I broke her heart. I know this doesn't mean anything to you. Virginity. My virginity. I don't want it to mean anything to me, but it does, because it means something to my mother. If I take you for tea with my mother, she'll think it's the equivalent of, of _forever_ , and I can't do that to her if it isn't. I can't, and I won't. So you need to know what it is that you're suggesting when you talk about us going to see her. And what it means."

"There's a workshop and gallery in Dorset that makes the most beautiful things out of glass," Harry says, almost as if he hadn't heard anything that Draco just said. "I only found it by accident when I was doing some outreach with a primary school near there. They do custom pieces."

"Harry--"

"We could go and order one for your mother," Harry goes on, ignoring Draco's interruption. "There's a bit of a waiting time for the custom pieces. I don't think we'd mind waiting though, would we? And then maybe I could give it to your mother when we meet."

"Potter."

"We don't need to decide now," Harry says. "Just know that I… I know what you're saying, all right? I don't undertake anything to do with you and I lightly. I think we're more careful with each other than anyone else ever has been, and I'm not about to throw that up in the air. We deserve what we give each other. We can change the subject but just know that I'm not taking any of this lightly."

"I know," Draco says, and it's true. He does know. He hasn't had anyone to trust in the longest time but he knows he's not mistaken in Harry, or what's growing between them. He manages a smile. "Is there anything I need to know before dinner with Hermione Granger?"

"That she's married," Harry says. "His name's Ron. You might like each other if you give each other a chance."

Draco makes a big show of rolling his eyes, but inside he's less sure. Harry had chosen his own family, all those years ago when they'd started Hogwarts, and he hadn't chosen Draco. He'd had good reason, and Draco didn't hold his decision against him, but that didn't mean that dinner was going to be easy, or that Harry's friends would accept their relationship. Particularly if Harry had let slip any of what they got up to whilst alone. 

Harry leans in and kisses him. "Our first time will be special," he says. "I promise."

"I know," Draco says, and this time, he kisses Harry back. It's time for a conversation change. "I thought you were feeding me chocolates?"

"Greedy piglet," Harry admonishes, but he's smiling and reaching for the box again. "Do you want more?"

"Always," Draco says, and if it answers a number of other questions that neither of them are voicing out loud too, then neither of them mention it.


	31. Chapter 31

Draco has come to believe very strongly that his decision to accept Hermione Granger's dinner invitation was a terrible one. An awful, terrible decision that will come back to bite him on the posterior, and only the fact that it will disappoint Harry if he backs out now keeps him from sending his owl with a message apologising and pulling out. 

For a start, the dress code is apparently 'casual', and Draco owns nothing that would fit Ron Weasley's definition of casual, and Draco's never sat down for dinner with guests in anything less than a shirt and tie. His London bedroom is littered with discarded outfit choices, and he's no closer to a final decision about what to wear than he had been half an hour ago. 

The charmed coin he and Harry sometimes use to communicate vibrates in the glass bowl by his bedside, and with a sigh, Draco picks it up. It's warm in his palm, with _you ready?_ picked out in Harry's chicken-scratch handwriting. 

He thumbs out a _no_ and sends it back, and then relents. He sends a follow up. _Help_. 

Harry's reply just says, _coming over_. 

Draco lets out a breath, and tries not to panic. 

***

"Go like that," Harry says, wandering into Draco's bedroom fifteen minutes later. The wards have let him in without complaint. 

Draco is in his underwear; he's standing in the middle of his room in his vest, pants, and socks. Harry has laughed at his underwear before, telling him that his underpants were so long they were practically trousers, but then Harry thought going outside in a _vest_ was acceptable so Draco chooses not to listen to Harry's risqué opinions. 

"I don't have anything to wear," Draco tells him, discarding yet another shirt onto the bed. He'll have to re-press everything he's taken out of his wardrobe as everything he owns is currently stacked on his bed, gaining creases at a rapid rate. Unacceptable. 

Harry leans against the door frame. He's wearing one of the new pairs of jeans they'd bought when they'd gone shopping together and subsequently altered; they're cut to his actual shape and not a vague approximation of a human, like everything had been in Harry's wardrobe before Draco had got his hands on it. Tonight he's wearing dark, indigo jeans that follow the shape of his leg and fit snugly around the crotch, and one of his new blue shirts with the top button open. He's stepped it up a level and is wearing one of the waistcoats Draco had demanded he buy. 

Draco's mouth goes dry. 

"You're just nervous," Harry says. "You've got plenty to wear."

"You look lovely," Draco says. "Very handsome."

"Do you think? Not sure about the waistcoat. Might be a bit beyond dinner with Ron and Hermione, but I wanted to."

Draco is very, very sure about the waistcoat. He might never have been surer about anything in his life. "I like it."

Harry's face curves into a smile. "I'm glad. I like all the things we bought. And my re-organised wardrobe. Makes me feel very lucky I've got you to look after me."

Draco goes what he's fairly certain is an unflattering shade of red. "I like looking after you."

"I know," Harry says. "Do you think I could do the same for you tonight? Let me pick out what you should wear?"

Draco lets out a puff of air. He battles the two warring parts of his brain a lot: the part that demands to be in control, that owns his own business and knows he's one of the best in the world at what he does, and the part that aches to go down on his knees and relinquish all the decision making to someone else. "You have no taste."

Harry hums. He's still leaning against the door frame, arms folded, deliberately insouciant. Terribly handsome in his new clothes. Even his hair is behaving -- or at least it looks like it is -- and Harry's hair hasn't behaved once since the very first time Draco saw him. "I'll let you have final sign off."

It's Draco's turn to _hmmm_. "That may be acceptable."

"I should think so," Harry says, and then he does something that Draco doesn't accept - namely, coming over to where Draco's standing and going down on his knees so he can pull Draco's underwear down and free his little cock. 

"What are you doing?"

"Sucking you off," Harry says. "If you'll let me."

"We'll be late." 

"We won't, and anyway, Ron sent me an owl to say he was half an hour late putting the meat in the oven so we'll be fine."

"Ron Weasley's cooking?"

"Shut up," Harry says, patting Draco's thigh. "There's a good boy."

Draco goes immediately silent, apart from a high, vaguely strangled sound as Harry slides his mouth around Draco's little cock. He must be easy to suck off, because his entire cock fits easily in Harry's mouth without any effort at all, not like when he gives Harry a blow job or warms his cock. He raises his eyes to the ceiling. He loves being on his knees so much, loves Harry using him, making use of him, like he's a thing, like he's Harry's to direct. He's wanted to be used for so long he can't remember a time when he wasn't secretly fantasising about being pushed to the floor or humiliated. Even before he'd realised it was sexual, when he used to think about Crabbe and Goyle pushing other children around and bullying them at Draco's demand and he'd found himself wondering night after night what it would be like if he was the one getting pushed around. He'd been confused for so long, and then after that, knee deep in secrets so embarrassing he'd known -- even as a teenager -- that he couldn't ever tell anyone. It had been years later, years of embarrassing, lonely masturbation sessions and even more embarrassing lonely days and nights as the wizarding marriage mart passed him by that he'd realised he could have a bit of what he wanted, and he'd found himself in the back rooms of clubs, his glamour spells getting better and better. 

Then Harry had found him, had found him out, and had given him everything he'd discovered that Draco had wanted. And one of those things, something that didn't really fit in with any of the fantasies or desires, was Harry sucking him off, licking the tiny length of him, every touch an embarrassing reiteration of just how small Draco is, a reminder that he can't fuck Harry or be anything other than just something for Harry to use. 

It won't take him long to come and he doesn't try to hold his orgasm off. Coming somewhat prematurely, Harry getting to know how easy and desperate Draco is, is better than trying to hold out. Harry's mouth is slack, maybe because he knows Draco's so desperate to be touched that he doesn't need to be the effort in. Draco loves the idea of Harry being lazy and careless with him, of making Draco the afterthought. He's going to come, just from Harry's mouth on his little cock and the very idea of Harry using him. 

He comes in helpless spurts in Harry's mouth, embarrassed that he didn't give any prior warning and couldn't hold out any longer. 

Harry doesn't even wait for him to finish before pulling off and clambering to his feet. Draco's little cock is still pulsing, forgotten, even as Harry covers Draco's mouth with his own. He hasn't swallowed; Draco's come is still in Harry's mouth and Draco tastes it eagerly, always, always wanting to be dirtier, to be filthier, for the humiliation to be _more_. 

When Draco's swallowed his own come, Harry finally kisses him, his hands sliding into Draco's hair, his tongue in Draco's mouth, and Draco kisses him back. He kisses him back until he can barely taste come anymore, until they're both breathless and Harry's pulling back. 

"You dribbled on the floor," Harry says, pointing down at Draco's softened cock, even smaller now he isn't hard, and the little spots of come on the hardwood. 

"I'm sorry," Draco says, and means it. 

"Well," Harry says. "Aren't you going to clean it up?" 

He doesn't tell Draco how, and it would be easy enough to get a cloth or a tissue from the bathroom or the dressing table, but Draco doesn't pick the easy way. He drops to his knees instead, his soft little cock still hanging out of his underwear, and cleans it up with his tongue. Harry crouches next to him and strokes the back of his neck. 

"What did I do to deserve you, hey?" Harry asks, when the floor's licked clean and Draco's resting on his knees with his cheek pressed to the hardwood. "So beautifully obedient, my dirty, depraved boy."

Draco makes a soft sound somewhere deep in his chest. He trembles with it. 

"I'm going to look after you so well," Harry tells him, still stroking the back of Draco's neck. "Going to look after you like no one's ever looked after you before. Give you everything you want and need. Spoil you rotten. Indulge your every depraved whim."

"Fuck me covered in cake," Draco says, the corner of his mouth curving up. It's a strange angle to look up at Harry from, cheek pressed to the floor, down on his knees, but he likes it. It makes him feel settled down in his stomach. Grounded. 

"Fuck you when you're covered in cake," Harry agrees. "But first you're going to accompany me to dinner with Hermione and Ron, and you're not going to show me up, are you?" 

It's a different tack to anything Harry's tried before, to put his mind at rest about dinner with Hermione. Telling him. 

"I'll be good," Draco says. "You'll be proud of me."

"I already am," Harry says, and Draco's whole body reacts to that, shivering in heated, incredible joy. Harry's hand stills on the back of Draco's neck. "But if you're good, I'll fuck you this weekend."

Draco stills. "My first time?"

"Our first time. Now, can I dress you, or are you planning on staying down there all day?"

As approaches go, it turns out that this one is relatively successful. 

***

"This remains a terrible idea," Draco says, sotto voce. Harry has apparated them to a small lane apparently around the corner from Hermione Granger's house, and for a moment, they stay wrapped around each other, as Draco's stomach returns to its normal place and not in his throat. Apparation is also a terrible idea if you're not quite feeling well, which Draco isn't, because he's as nervous as he can remember being. 

"If it actually is a terrible idea, we can leave," Harry tells him, stepping out of Draco's arms and looking at him consideringly. He brushes something off of Draco's shoulder. 

"Was there anything there, or are you just trying to make me feel better?"

"Both," Harry says promptly, and smiles at him. "Honestly, Draco, it's just my friends. We'll eat some food, have a drink, come home again. What could possibly be terrible about that?"

Draco has a list as long as his arm, but he chooses to remain quiet. Harry had chosen dark blue tailored trousers for him, almost a match for Harry's blue waistcoat, but topped off with a pale blue shirt and a soft navy sweater. Without a tie and a jacket or a robe, he feels practically naked.

"Exactly," Harry says, and he hands Draco the bag. "Are you ready?"

Draco's bag contains a bottle of wine, a white orchid, and a small box of after dinner mint chocolates. He feels curiously underprepared for this evening, even as Harry rests his hand in the small of Draco's house and nudges him forward. "Why couldn't we just apparate to their actual house?"

"Because there are Muggles around, and because nobody wants to deal with having to obliviate the neighbours because we've just rocked up on the doorstep out of nowhere."

The little overgrown lane turns into a street, and to Draco's surprise, it's half full of Muggle cars and children playing. Hermione Granger's house is a semi-detached with a short driveway and a garage, and Draco is firmly reminded of the houses in Martin the Mad Muggle as they go up the drive and ignore the front door in favour of knocking on the side door by the garage. Draco can feel the gentle pulsing of the wards around them. 

After a minute, the door's opened by Ronald Weasley, in a striped jumper, an apron, jeans, and fluffy slippers with bunny ears. Ronald Weasley, it seems, is invariably drawn to inappropriate footwear. 

"All right, Harry?" he says, opening the door wider and stepping back so that they can go in. "Draco." He looks at a point just to the right of Draco's actual head, which Draco considers reasonable given their history. 

"All right, Ron," Harry says, and there follows some kind of sociological investigation into male affection that Draco can't really follow, that includes some shoulder holding and back slapping but nothing that actually turns into a hug. "How's it going?"

"Chicken's in the oven, we'll eat at some point before midnight." Harry and Ron share some kind of commiserating look. Draco doesn't understand why. "Do you want a drink?"

"I brought wine," Draco says, because he has, and because he doesn't particularly want to draw attention to how much he's floundering. He doesn't know where to put himself. He's walked directly into the _kitchen_ , and it's like no kitchen he's ever been in. It's unrelentingly Muggle, down to the tiles and the _refrigerator_ , and it even has a gas hob, which Draco is not going anywhere near, even if someone pays him. "You have an electric kettle."

"Yes," Ron says, eyes narrowing. He glances at Harry. "Is he going to be a problem?"

"Be nice," Harry says. He touches Draco's elbow. "Give Ron the wine, and whatever else you've brought him, and then we can move on to the part of the evening where we all get mildly sloshed. It'll be better then. Where's Hermione?"

"Getting the kids into their pyjamas," Ron says. "They've both been monsters today. Hugo's stopped sleeping full stop and the least difficult part of Rose's day was when she got paint on the cat." He doesn't sound particularly unhappy about it, although perhaps tired, and he obediently takes the wine that Draco's holding out for him. He looks bemused as Draco follows it up with the chocolates and then the orchid. "Hermione's had two meetings with the Department of Mysteries today and one with the Minister for Magic, so she says she's prepared for monster wrangling."

"Be careful on the stairs," Hermione calls from upstairs, and then there's the pad-pad-pad of little footsteps on the staircase and a moment later, a little, curly haired girl stomps into the kitchen and only stops when she sees Harry and Draco in the doorway. She immediately wraps herself around her dad's leg and hides her face. 

"See?" Ron says, attempting to unwind his child from around his leg. "She never used to be shy. You like Uncle Harry, Rose. Say hello to Uncle Harry and--" he stumbles over the words, his cheeks reddening --"Uncle Draco."

Rose unhides her face for a fraction of a second and says something that sounds like "'lo."

"She's come over all shy again," Hermione Granger says, coming into the kitchen with a little boy on her hip. He's dressed in little sleep clothes with owls on them, and his dark hair is sticking up in defiant curls on top of his head. He's rubbing his eyes. "Hello Harry. Draco." She leans in and kisses first Draco's cheek, then Harry's. Draco knows he's going red and doesn't know how to stop it. "Harry, will you take Hugo for a bit? He might fall asleep on you, which would be the best possible thing if I'm honest. He's decided he's allergic to sleep, which automatically means the rest of us have to be too." She bundles Hugo into Harry's waiting arms, and Draco is horrified at having to watch Harry make faces at this small, sleepy child, and down at Rose, who giggles and hides her face again. It makes strange things happen in his chest. He has absolutely no idea how to deal with any of those feelings, so he busies himself by looking the other way, which unfortunately means meeting Ronald Weasley's assessing gaze. Hermione slides a hand into Rose's hair, and Rose sneaks a look up at her mum, but doesn't detach herself from Ron's leg. 

They're married with children. It doesn't quite seem possible. 

"You brought wine," Hermione says, in sheer relief. "Thank goodness. Ron?" It's clearly an instruction to open the wine, which Ron does, with Rose still clinging to his leg. "And chocolates and flowers. Thank you, Draco, you shouldn't have."

Draco flounders for something to say. He ends up at, "We couldn't arrive empty-handed."

Harry - still holding a sleepy Hugo in his arms - slips a hand into the small of Draco's back, and Draco does his level best not to launch himself across the kitchen at his touch. He's never been touched in public. He forces himself to stay still. 

"You have a very nice house," Draco says, even though so far he's just seen one chaotic kitchen and two very quiet children.

"It might not be as big as anything you own--" Ron starts sharply, and Hermione makes a very obvious show of poking him in the side. Draco feels helpless. He'd actually meant it as a compliment. A fairly standard one, but a compliment nevertheless. 

"Have you warmed the milk for their bedtime drinks?" Hermione asks, which covers the gap nicely. 

Ron produces one bottle and one plastic cup with a lid and a drinking spout, magically warmed, judging by the _finite incantatem_ he murmurs as he hands the bottle to Harry before crouching down to give Rose her cup. 

"Once we've got these two down we can sit down and properly relax," Hermione says, taking Hugo back from Harry. "We're running a bit behind. And, uh, Ron and I can toss a coin for who gets to drink more than a single glass of wine tonight."

"You cheat," Ron says, without looking up. Rose is still shy, curling into his side as she drinks her milk. 

Hermione gives Draco the ghost of a wink. "I adapt to circumstances."

This doesn't fit with the image he has in his head of Hermione Granger. None of it does, if he's honest, right down to the fact that he's here in her kitchen with Harry by his side. 

Harry, who settles his hand on Draco's hip and steps a little closer into Draco's space. Draco's first inclination is to bolt, but he resists and instead doesn't react at all, not even to lean back towards Harry. 

"Wine, I think," Hermione says, after what may or may not have been an awkward pause. "Harry, take the bottle through to the living room, will you? There are glasses in the cupboard in there."

Draco follows Harry out of the kitchen and into a living room that's smaller than Draco's bedroom in the flat. It's still clearly a Muggle room, but it's crowded with pictures of the Weasley branch of the family, if the red hair is anything to go by, as well as pictures that don't move at all, which Draco suspects is the Muggle arm of the family. Harry, who clearly knows where he's going, opens the cupboard in the corner with an _alohamora_ and comes back out with four stemless wine goblets. 

"Thirsty?" Harry asks. 

There is literally no way on earth that Draco is drinking wine of this vintage out of a _stemless wine glass_. His father would actually turn over in his grave. Somewhere on the continent, his mother has just stood up for no reason at all and doesn't know why. 

"Sit down, Draco," Harry says. "Be good."

Draco, for want of something better to do, promptly sits down in the middle seat on the sofa. Hermione and Ron have a _television_. There's a _telephone_. Harry hands him a glass of wine, then sits down and arranges himself so that he's casually thrown his legs over Draco's lap and has his feet on the cushion. At some point he's removed his shoes; Draco hadn't noticed. 

"We're in public," Draco hisses, because he's had the rules of etiquette drilled into him from the time he was Hugo's age, and the way Harry's sitting breaks at least eight rules that Draco can think of. 

"We're with friends," Harry says unrepentantly, and then he leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of Draco's mouth. "Relax. It'll be fine. Drink your wine."

Draco doesn't know what else to do, so he does as Harry says, and drinks from his stemless wine glass like a heathen. 

***

"So," Hermione says, curled up in the armchair by the gas fire. "Harry says you work with wards now?"

"Primarily wards at the moment, yes," Draco says, doing his best to not meet either Ron or Harry's eyes, because somewhere in their recent shared history is the spectre of a blue Ron after testing Ginny's new wards. Harry's legs are still stretched out across Draco's lap, and Draco has to focus so he doesn't slip his fingers around Harry's ankle and stroke. "Although I'm good at taking charms apart and discovering where the weaknesses are. It's not just wards."

Hermione hums. "There aren't that many people out there who are good at that."

"I know," Draco says. He's very good at it.

"He's the best," Harry says, for no good reason at all. He just sounds proud, and it settles in Draco's chest like a prize. 

"Hmmm," Ron says, having won the toss and already on his second glass of wine. "So tell me again, how did you and him end up, you know. Wozzname."

"Ron," Hermione hisses. 

"Just met up, didn't we? By accident," Harry says, as if he understands what _wozzname_ means. Draco doesn't speak oik, and never has. "Then I invited him over and it was really very civilised. We had cake."

By 'civilised', Harry very clearly means 'hand-fed a naked Draco cream horns on his kitchen floor', but to all intents and purposes he seems very laid back and casual with his interpretation of the truth. 

"Cake," Ron says, in disbelief. "One minute you're having cake, the next you're, you know, having each other?"

Hermione kicks him in the ankle. "Ronald," she says. "Honestly, shut up. You're showing yourself up."

"I'm not being rude," Ron says, holding one hand up. He'd clearly hold both hands up if he could, but one of them's holding wine so he's a bit less casual with his arms. "I'm genuinely asking. Mate. You used to call him your nemesis."

"Oh no," Draco says, unable to help himself. "You didn't."

Harry, to his credit, goes bright red. "I haven't for a while?"

"But you did," Draco says. "I was your nemesis. I tell you, there's a teenage version of me out there that's just had all his dreams come true. That's all I ever wanted."

Nobody in the room comments on what teenage Draco was actually busy doing, which Draco is thankful for. It wasn't his finest decade. So far, none of them have been that great, although the past few weeks have nudged this one up the leaderboard. 

"He was obsessed," Ron says, warming to his topic. "Hated you, he did. Went on and on, all sixth year--"

"Ron," Hermione says warningly. 

"I'm being nice," Ron protests. "That's what you said."

"I _said_ ," Hermione says, "that it's time to look to the future. And that means if Harry wants to bring his _boyfriend_ over for dinner, then his boyfriend is very welcome here."

Draco, to his credit, doesn't shrivel up and die on the spot. He counts that as a win. Except:

Harry reaches for Draco's hand and links their fingers together. It takes Draco by surprise, Harry's palm pressed to his. Harry catches his eye. His ensuing smile is the warm sort, and Draco can't help but return it in kind. 

"Oh no," Ron says. "Look at that. I'm going to have to be nice to this wanker for ages now, they're not casual. We don't look at each other like that, do we?"

Harry, who must be used to Ron because he hasn't smothered him in his sleep yet and he's had plenty of opportunities, chucks a cushion at Ron's head. 

"Ugh," Ron says. "I'll go and see if the chicken's ready. And if we've got another bottle of wine. We're going to need it."

***

"So," Harry says, once they've apparated back to Draco's flat and they're disentangling themselves in the entrance hall. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Draco blinks at him. "Potter," he says carefully. "The things I put up with for you. How have you not pushed Ron off a cliff yet?"

"Because he's my best friend," Harry says, nudging Draco back towards the wall, "and one of these days you and him might stop sniping at each other long enough to realise you actually have things in common."

"We have nothing in common," Draco says. "Don't say such terrible things."

Harry presses him back against the wall and slides his knee in between Draco's legs. "What about me?"

"What about you?" Draco asks sulkily. He's eaten a nice roast dinner and a nice lemon tart with cream for dessert, and finished it off with more wine and a cup of coffee and a strictly limited two mint chocolates. He's briefly met two sleepy, shy children with sticky-up hair who call Harry _uncle_. He's conversed with Granger and Weasley, and no one ended up hexed. He's been terribly polite all evening. 

"You both like me," Harry says, nudging his knee upwards so that it brushes Draco's little cock. 

"Do we?"

"I think so," Harry says. "Although I can't say I've ever fancied pushing Ron Weasley up against the wall."

I should think not," Draco says, scandalised. "You're promised to me."

Harry's smile curves across his whole face. "Am I, now?"

"I was your _nemesis_ ," Draco says. 

"You were," Harry agrees. He leans in and nips at Draco's lip with his teeth. "And I am promised to you." He kisses Draco. 

Somewhat mollified, Draco kisses him back. "Promise?"

"I do," Harry says. He cups Draco's cheek in his palm. "This weekend. Let me show you exactly what I'm promising."

Draco pretends to think it over. Harry took him to meet his friends. They called him Harry's _boyfriend_. "Tempting," he says finally. 

Harry laughs. He drops his knee and wraps his arms around Draco's shoulders. Draco slides his hands into the small of Harry's back. They sway a little, awkward, like they're dancing but with no music. 

"Hey," Harry says, after a while. 

"What?"

"I'm happy," Harry says, and Draco, his heart pounding, tucks his face into the curve of Harry's shoulder, and holds on.


	32. Chapter 32

Friday dawns heavy and overcast, and by the afternoon the rain is heavy and unrelenting. It's so dark Draco has to light the lamps in his office and force himself to carry on working even though he runs his own business and could just as easily take the afternoon off. In the kitchen there's a new package of black tea infused with rose, delivered this morning, and two small boxes of the most expensive Charbonnel et Walker chocolates he could find in the wizarding side of Liberty waiting next to it. One is English dark violet creams, the other milk sea salt caramel truffles. In the hallway waits his new weekend luggage, soft brown leather with dark green trim and interior. His trousseau, new, richly expensive, and all neatly tailored, is spelled inside, crease-free and immaculate. 

It is only Draco's immense self control that ensures he remains at his desk and at his work rather than pacing the flat and driving himself slowly mad at the thought of what's coming, of Harry fucking him, of all the consequences that that entails. 

He's spent his whole life being told of the value of his virginity, and now it comes to it, the idea of losing it is a little terrifying. It brings into sharp perspective Harry's comments about meeting Draco's mother; about the vaguely awkward dinner with Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley, about the part of his brain that keeps whispering _forever_ to him with startling, unrelenting hope. 

He checks his pocket watch. It's only just past four, so he can't give in and stop work yet. Harry won't be here until seven, and Draco has had enough time off recently that there's a backlog of correspondence. 

_Focus_ , he tells himself. _Just focus_. 

In the end, he's disturbed by the doorbell just after six. He wasn't expecting anyone -- he never has anyone to expect; anyone contacting him about work sends an owl, and he never has meetings at home -- but he takes off his glasses and folds them away before standing up and smoothing down his clothes, checking his appearance in the mirror before heading for the door. It won't do to look anything but immaculate. 

It's Hermione Granger. For a moment, they stare awkwardly at each other, Draco in surprise, Hermione in a little discomfort, damp from the rain. 

"Do come in," he says, when she doesn't break the silence. "Would you like some tea?"

"Tea would be lovely," she says, stepping inside. She's holding an umbrella, as if she walked down the road in the rain to come and visit him rather than just apparating. She spells it dry and does the same with the patch on the floor she's dripped on; Draco does not for one second glance in the direction of the mirror on the wall and the come stain on the floor. She takes off her overcoat and hangs it on the coat stand by the door, but stills at the sight of Draco's weekend bag. "You're going away?"

"With Harry, for the weekend," he says. "Would you like to wait in the sitting room whilst I make the tea?"

"I'll come through with you," she says. "Kitchens are always the nicest bit of any house, anyway."

Draco doesn't know where she got that idea; he can't fathom a world where that might be true. Growing up he barely stepped inside his kitchen. "Of course," he says anyway. He leads down the hall and round the corner into the kitchen. The tea and chocolates are still packaged up on the counter. He deliberately doesn't glance at them. He puts the water on to boil for tea. "How can I help you?"

"I thought you might be able to give our wards at home a bit of a going over," she says breezily, and Draco can't help but think that that isn't why she's come over, but he'll let her come to it in her own time. "It's important for us that Hugo and Rose get to be involved with both parts of their heritage; my mum and dad would hate to be excluded from their lives just because we chose to live in a magical place where they couldn't come and go. Equally, we're a magic family; Ron's family need to be able to visit and we want to be able to let the children play in the garden with toys from both sides of the family. We've done the best we can but it would put our minds at rest if they could be reviewed by an expert."

Draco pours water onto tea leaves. It's a light blend with a darjeeling base; he doesn't ask Hermione if she'd prefer a different one. He sets the tray for tea for two, including cups and a small plate of biscuits, and pours milk into a jug. "Sugar?"

"Not for me," she says. "So, will you do it?"

"Your wards felt adequate," he says. "Warm. I don't usually look at wards that are working."

"You're very astute," she says. 

"Occasionally." There's silence. The wards aren't why she's come. The tea brews. "Thank you for inviting me to dinner. It was a nice surprise."

"Yes, well. Harry's important to us."

"To all of us," he says. He metaphorically squares his shoulders. "Was there something in particular you wanted?"

"I had it all planned out, but now I'm here I don't really know where to start." She smiles. It's a little wonky. "I just… a lot of people think Harry has everything under control, that he's well adjusted--"

"He is well adjusted."

"I know. He's just, um… well, he's not always as _together_ as maybe he pretends to be. And I know that he really likes you, and it seems like you like him back, so--" she stops. "With Harry sometimes you have to look beyond what he's telling you, and sometimes he says things like _I'm fine_ and underneath, well, it's not like he's not fine, but he's always as fine as he pretends--"

He touches his fingertips to her forearm. He doesn't know how else to stop her. Three fingers to her arm; it's the most he's touched someone that hasn't been Harry or shaking hands with a customer in a very long time. "I know," he says. "You're not telling me anything that we haven't already talked about."

She tears her gaze away from his hand and stares at him instead. "You've talked about-- about how well adjusted he is?"

"Amongst other things." He meets her eyes. "I know you have no reason to trust me. I know you're protective of Harry. But so am I."

"You can't know everything, you've got to be careful with him--"

"I am," he says, stopping her again. "I know you think you're doing the right thing, and that I don't know what you're trying to tell me. And maybe I don't, but there's enough that I do know, and enough that he's told me, that I'm not scared of what I don't know yet. And I'm not scared of him either."

"He's been through such a lot."

"Yes," Draco says. "I know we don't leave your past behind. I know it. I know you carry it with you, and I know Harry does too, and I do as well. I know you're here because you love Harry. But you need to trust him."

"He doesn't open up easily. He barely does with Ron and I, and we've known him forever. You can't know everything."

Draco removes his hand. He goes back to stir the teapot, and busies himself pouring them both a cup before handing a cup and saucer to Hermione and offering her the milk. He stirs his own and takes a biscuit. "I don't. Of course I don't."

"He's fragile," Hermione says. She pours milk into her cup. "I know he doesn't look it. I know he comes across as strong and in control but underneath he's a bit fragile."

Draco looks at her. "Do you think I don't know that? How do you think I could possibly be with him and not know?"

She looks a little startled, almost like it hadn't crossed her mind. 

"You have no reason to trust me," he says. "I know that. I don't ask you to. But you can trust Harry to tell you if he's happy. So you should ask him if he is. If he feels safe. You should ask him that."

"Safe," she says, after a while. "That's an unusual word to choose."

"Is it? It seems like the right one to me." 

She watches him. "Is he? Safe with you?"

He can't stop to think about what she's assuming the length and breadth of _safe_ is. It's enough that Harry is. "Yes," he says. "Every bit of him."

"I don't know how I expected this conversation to go, but this wasn't it."

"Have a biscuit." He offers her the plate again, and rather than remove to the sitting room, they stay where they are, leaning against the kitchen counter. The silence, when it comes, stays. 

Hermione is still there when Harry arrives a little later, the wards opening for him without protest. Draco feels them shift as Harry slips through. It's perhaps for the best that Harry arrives now, when he and Hermione have not yet come to blows over who knows Harry best. For that's how he feels: that he knows Harry to a degree that Hermione doesn't, and can't ever, but in ways that he can never share without hurting Harry. That's not to say that there aren't ways in which Hermione knows Harry that Draco doesn't, or that Harry doesn't still have his secrets, but he knows he's right. Harry is safe with him. Harry's secrets are safe with him. 

"We're in the kitchen," he calls, even though Harry hasn't announced his arrival yet.

Hermione glances at him sharply. She hasn't heard Harry yet, and isn't attuned to the wards. 

"Harry's here," he says simply. 

"Who's _we_?" Harry asks, coming in. "I thought you were going to be ready to leave when I arrived-- oh. Hi, Hermione. What're you doing here?"

Draco's eyebrows go up infinitesimally in Hermione's direction. 

"Just popped in," she says breezily. "Draco made me tea."

"That's nice," Harry says, but he's not entirely comfortable, Draco can tell. He pauses for a moment before coming over and slipping an arm around Draco's back and going up on his toes for a second so that he can kiss Draco's temple. "Everything all right?"

"Marvellous," Draco says, for there are two people in his house besides himself, and it has not been like this since his father was alive. For a moment, he longs for his mother, and the weight of her love for him. "How was your day?"

"All the better for getting to the end of it. Hermione, honestly, what on earth are you doing here?"

Hermione rolls her eyes. "Ron and I thought that someone should give Draco the _hurt him and we'll hurt you talk_ , and I lost the toss."

"Did you," Harry says levelly. 

"It's all right," Draco says. "They're looking out for you. I wouldn't trust me either. And as far as I understand, having people care for you is a nice thing, so stop looking like you've stepped in something nasty."

"I don't look like that."

"You do a little bit," Hermione says. She at least has the grace to sound apologetic. 

"I don't think I could be any more serious about Draco if I tried," Harry says. He's staring Hermione out, and she's staring back. There are endless years of friendship battling in that stare, and Draco can't help but be on the outside. He hasn't had a friend in a very long time. "I thought you understood that."

"I know you are. But I didn't know if Draco was as serious. We just needed to check."

Oh. Draco's lost in that for a moment. He's so lost in Harry that he's assumed it's obvious how much he feels for him; just having Harry and Hermione in his flat is more open than he's been in his life so far. "I am," he says, but he knows from Hermione's face that it's not enough. 

Harry strokes his hand over the small of Draco's back. Like before, at Hermione and Ron's house, it makes want to throw himself across the room so that no one can see him be touched, but he wills himself to be still. He's allowed this touch, this feeling, this _love_. He's allowed it. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't have the words for this, not in the way Hermione wants him to. 

"You and Ron are my best friends," Harry says. "You're my family. But even that doesn't mean you get to walk into my relationship with me. You don't get to walk into Draco's home and make him make jokes about how he wouldn't trust himself either when I trust him with my life, okay? I trust him with my life."

"Harry," Draco says. Hermione says it too but Draco's not listening to her. His heart's pounding. 

"Thanks for coming over," Harry says. "Are we still on for Monday night, me coming over?" He's talking to Hermione but Draco's still staring at him. _I trust him with my life_. It's the biggest thing anyone's ever given him. There's a queer sort of a sob caught at the back of his throat and he can't swallow it and he can't let it out, so it just has to stay where it is, stuck. 

"Of course we are," Hermione says, and if she's glancing between them, Draco doesn't pay her any attention. _I trust him with my life_. "And we'll have to have another dinner when all four of us get together."

"Absolutely," Harry says, and his hand is gone from the small of Draco's back. "I'll show you out."

Hermione touches his arm then, and Draco flinches before he can help himself. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable," she says. "We just wanted to make sure. And we really would like it if you ever wanted to look at our wards."

He nods. His words are still trapped at the back of his throat, along with his sob. Crying, honestly. He could fucking weep. 

"Come on," Harry says, and then he's sweeping Hermione out of the kitchen. Draco is reminded that Harry has a life outside of him, where he can be forceful and have people listen to him when he speaks. 

After they've gone, Draco spends a moment staring at the packages of tea and chocolate, and then follows them towards the hall. He gets there as Harry closes the door after her. 

"I'm sorry," Harry says, turning around. "She should never have come here and said that to you."

"It's fine," Draco says. "She loves you. Has she definitely gone?"

"Definitely," Harry says. He's lost his robe but underneath he's wearing some of his new clothes; a shirt and pullover in dark, rich blue teamed with jeans. His brown brogues are even polished. There's a bag next to Draco's in the hall, a little scruffier and older, perhaps, but nevertheless, a weekend bag. 

"Good," Draco says, and he holds out his wand to lock the flat from prying visitors, slipping it away in the wand pocket in his trousers before going over and dropping to his knees in front of Harry. He's unbuttoning Harry's jeans and pulling them down even before Harry's realised quite what's happening; at that point, Harry helps, pushing his underwear and trousers down out of the way. 

"Draco--"

"I trust you with my life too," Draco says, without meeting Harry's gaze, and then he slides his mouth over Harry's still mostly soft cock, and holds him in his mouth. 

Harry runs his fingers through Draco's hair. Draco's still: he's warming Harry's cock until Harry tells him to do otherwise. 

"I'm honoured," Harry says, and Draco wants to weep with it all over again. His breath catches in his throat. His eyes water a little and he has to blink as he looks up at Harry. "My darling," Harry goes on, stroking Draco's hair, his cheek, his jaw. "I've been really looking forward to this weekend."

He's going to fuck Draco so that Draco will no longer be a virgin, so that all of those years of his virginity being a commodity will be over, so he never has to wonder if he will ever be of value to anyone, because right now, he is. He's loved. He's loved for who he is, for all of these parts inside of him that no one else could have wanted, but Harry has just gathered up and given back to him in ways Draco's never even dreamed of. 

"That's right, darling," Harry says, "that's where you're supposed to be, isn't it? On your knees with a cock in your mouth."

Draco makes a soft sound in the back of his throat. 

"That's right, get me hard. Make me come."

Draco gives into it, and sucks Harry off. 

Afterwards, Harry drops down to his knees and wraps his arms around Draco's shoulders. "Are you all right?"

Draco nods, and curls into Harry's arms. "They were worried about you."

"I know. They still shouldn't have come over." He strokes Draco's hair. "You haven't changed your mind about this weekend, have you?"

Draco wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. "Of course not."

"Good," Harry says, "let's get our things together and get ready to go."

"Yes," Draco says, but they stay where they are for a little bit longer, in each other's arms. 

***

Their destination is a small cottage on the Pembrokeshire coastline, nestled in the dip between the cliffs, accessible only by apparition or a rough track across a neighbour's farmland. Even the coast path diverts inland around the cottage, leaving the small rocky beach for them and them alone. Standing at the top of the beach as the rain falls down around them, their macintoshes impervio'd to water, Draco breathes in the salt air, in and out, and lets his shoulders relax. 

"How did you find this place?"

"I bought it a couple of years ago," Harry says. "It belonged to someone at work's grandparents, and at the time I was feeling… a little trapped. I wanted a bolthole to escape from everything and everyone. But then I never really got around to getting it sorted out, and I just kept saying to myself I'd do it next summer, but so far it's been two summers and I haven't really done much else than come down a couple of times and then go home again." He slides an arm around Draco's waist. "Turns out I didn't so much want to be alone as just have somewhere to go that wasn't work and home."

"Until now," Draco says. The cottage is tiny, just big enough for a small bedroom, sitting room, kitchen and bathroom, with a tumbledown garden out in front and a small hut and a woodpile out behind. The Pembrokeshire stone must have seen a century at least pass. The whole cottage could probably fit in Draco's London hall. The bedroom doesn't even have room for a bedside table. There's just a bed and a chest of drawers at the end of it, and the sitting room just has a small sofa, a table for two, and a bookshelf stuffed with books that don't look like they were ever Harry's, and some old games on the bottom shelf. There's a woodburning stove that Draco will check the charms on later; there's nothing that keeps him up at night like the horror of nightmares about fire. The kitchen is small and cramped, but there's a set of stone stairs that lead down into a cool, dry, little pantry with thin shelves along each wall. 

Draco has never stayed anywhere so small in his life. 

"I mostly forgot I owned it," Harry says with a sort of half shrug. His hands are deep in his pockets as the rain falls around them. "Not forgot, I suppose. I just didn't have a particular use for it. I didn't want to get rid of it - and who would want it if I did? But I didn't know what to do with it either."

"If you let me have a go at it, I'll charm you a bit more storage space," Draco says. "I imagine you like the size of it."

Harry grins at him. "I do. You can't have a bolthole that's practically a mansion, it makes no sense."

"This is practically a cupboard," Draco says, but it's got no bite to it. The cottage is ramshackle, nestled in the dip, next to a little stream that runs into the sea. There are apparently seals, sometimes, and puffins; some of the old books on the shelves are guides to the creatures of Wales and Pembrokeshire, others guides to the flora and fauna. There's another one devoted to ghosts and legends. Draco had considered reading it for approximately half a second before discarding it; he sleeps poorly enough as it is. 

"But you're happy here?" Harry asks. 

Draco glances at him. "Yes," he says. "It's beautiful."

"We're gathering quite the property portfolio between the two of us."

"A house for every situation."

"Got any more you haven't told me about? London and the Highlands? Anywhere else?"

He offers Harry half a smile. "I rather suspect there are more properties on the continent than I currently know about. There are two that will come to me. My mother has the run of them. I think she has a place in reserve too; my father taught her well."

"I don't think this cottage is an example of how to hide money in property."

"Safety in location, perhaps," Draco says. "I'll check the wards tomorrow. Make sure they're up to date."

"Thanks," Harry says. There's a pause. "Make sure they'll open for both of us."

"As you wish." The cold is starting to settle beneath the warming charm. The clouds keep hiding the moon. "We should go in."

"We should," Harry says. "I'll warm up dinner."

It seems shockingly domestic, although Draco's adult life has always been quietly inward looking, a series of domestic engagements taking him through his days. Just never like this, the two of them together, the rain on the slates as they go inside the cottage and lock up against the night. The fire is already burning, and as Draco settles down to check that the fire charms are up to scratch, Harry turns the radio on in the kitchen and warms the stew he'd brought with him on the stove. He lays the table as Draco strengthens the charms; a bright little tablecloth and old table mats with puffins on, a basket with bread, butter, a bottle of beer each, poured into glasses. The smell of beef stew settles gently around them. 

"Have you ever brought anyone else here?" Draco asks, as Harry brings the radio into the living room, followed by the stew. 

"No," Harry says. "It's too small. I told Ron and Hermione about it, but they've got the children now. Maybe if I put another bedroom on the back, but I'm not sure I want to. When they're older perhaps we can pitch a tent in the garden in the summer. I think children would like that, don't you?"

Draco had spent his holidays either on the continent or at home, at endless dinners where he had to dress up and remember which fork to use and which grown ups to talk to about what. "I think so," he says. "They'd probably have the time of their lives."

Harry beams at him. "Good. That's what I thought. Now come and sit down, there's crumble and custard for pudding."

"I didn't know you could cook like this." Draco comes to sit down, pulling the chair out. 

"I can't," Harry says. "Molly Weasley made them for us."

"For us?" Draco stills. 

"For us," Harry says. He amends it a little. "It's hard. After Ginny. Trying gets so hard after a while. I don't know if she wants to be making food for me. I think she'd rather I was marrying Ginny, or that Ginny actually wanted to be with me. That would be easier for everyone, she thinks, and maybe she's right?"

"Maybe she is."

"Easier doesn't mean better, though." Harry spoons out stew into a bowl, setting it down in front of Draco. "And she never says anything. When I told her about us, she asked me if you liked stew and I said yes, and then made this."

"Is it poisoned?"

"If it is, we're both going down with it." He helps himself to some, and then sits down. "Families are tiring, and they don't know you like I know you. But they're trying. Very trying, in some cases. Bloody Hermione turning up like that."

"She cares." Draco isn't really used to stews. He's used to more delicate fare, less hearty. Less suet dumplings. This one's nice, though. He watches Harry take his bread and dip it in, and does the same. "She wants to make sure you're all right."

"I'm fine. I'm more than fine. I'm here with you, aren't I?"

"Yes," Draco says. He has some of his beer. It's as foreign a meal as he's ever had. "Earlier… I said that this place was like a cupboard. I didn't mean that. I just, I meant it was small."

"I know. You can't not mention cupboards for the rest of forever just because I used to live in one. You're allowed to smile at it. I'm smiling, aren't I? Anyway, maybe that's why I like it. That cupboard was the safest place in my entire house. I could have either come out of it hating confined spaces or feeling safe in them, and I bought this house out of choice. And I haven't sold it. There's got to be something here that I like."

Draco gives him a rueful smile. "I'll do the wards for you. Tighten them up."

"Good," Harry says. "That's more important than how big it is. How'd you like the stew?"

"A lot. You'll have to tell Mrs Weasley that I enjoyed it."

"I will," Harry says. He takes another piece of bread, buttering it before dipping it into his bowl. "I'm happy when I'm with you. You know that, right?"

Draco's chest expands a little. "I know. I'm happy when I'm with you, too."

Harry's smile widens. He lifts his glass of beer, and taps it against Draco's. "Here's to a hundred more weekends away."

Draco's heart pounds. "And a hundred more nights in."

"Two hundred," Harry says. 

Draco laughs. "A thousand," he says, and just for a moment, it feels like forever.


	33. Chapter 33

It's a little strange, once they've finished clearing away their dinner things. Draco doesn't know what to do next. Should he suggest a game? There are some on the bottom shelf of the little bookcase in the sitting room. Maybe they should have tea. Maybe there's something for the house that he could do, some little job that will help Harry out. Maybe--

Harry comes over and rests his hands on Draco's shoulders. "It's all right," he says. "If you don't want to do this, we don't have to. I know how much it means to you. We can just have a nice weekend instead."

Draco shakes his head. Harry has it all wrong. He's not scared about losing his virginity. He's scared that he won't. "I want to," he says, because trying to articulate the confusion in his head is too difficult, and because Harry's never led him wrong before. "I want to so much."

Harry's smile makes his face look a little younger, a little less worried. "I'm glad. I've been thinking about it for so long."

"Not as long as I have."

Harry tilts his head. "Maybe," he says. "Are you ready? Or do you want to wait?"

Draco almost laughs. "I don't want to wait. I don't want to wait any longer at all."

"All right," Harry says. He stops holding on to Draco's shoulders and pats him in the small of the back instead. "Go through to the bedroom. I'll be through in a moment."

Draco nods. He enjoys getting to be obedient like this, following Harry's gentle orders outside of their more… explicit activities. Obedience settles him, lets him breathe. His father could never have understood this about him. It's no wonder Draco never let it show until after his father had passed away. It's no wonder he's such a mess. 

He's Harry's mess, though, and Harry seems to want all of him, all the untidy, messy parts of him that he'd never dreamed for a moment that anyone would ever understand. 

He stands on the little rug by the side of the bed, and waits. 

When Harry follows him in, he's lost his knitted sweater, and is holding a little jar in one hand and the lid in the other. He sets it down on the chest of drawers, next to a flowered bowl on a little lace doily. Like the rest of the house, it must have been very much as Harry had found it when he'd first moved in. 

Draco expects Harry to tell him to take his clothes off, but instead, Harry just steps into Draco's space, cups his face in his hand, and kisses him softly. 

"All right?"

"Of course," Draco says. Harry's hands are on him, stroking down over his shoulder and down his arm and then over to his waist. He's being touched, gentle but familiar, and Draco yearns for it. He yearns so strongly to be touched that he could weep with it. It's never enough. 

"My darling," Harry says, and it's as if the reverence in Harry's voice takes root in Draco's chest and steals his breath. "Draco, my darling." 

He wants to weep, and they haven't even started yet. "I'm yours," he says, and his voice catches a little, small enough that he can't hide it. 

Harry's mouth curves up at the edges. "Good," he says. "Good, that's how it should be." And then he starts to undress Draco, taking off his jumper and his belt and kneeling down to take off his slippers and his socks. It's always really been Draco undressing Harry, and he's unused to this kind of attention; maybe he always will be. In his head it's always him looking after Harry, it's always him on his knees. This time it's Harry undressing him, standing up to help him off with his trousers and his shirt, until he's just in his long underwear, and Harry's still dressed. 

"You're still dressed," he says, unable to help himself from going pink. 

"I won't be in a minute," Harry says. He's smiling. He doesn't look nervous, but then, he wouldn't; it's not his first time. "Take your underwear off and get into bed."

Draco lets out a breath, and obeys. He likes being obedient so much. It makes his little cock hard. Such a little cock. As he takes his underwear off, it juts out, stiff and tiny. It's a relief that there's nothing in him that's built to dominate; he couldn't ever be the son his father wanted him to be. He's just what he is when he's with Harry: submissive, small, best on his knees. So, so submissive. Everything his father would have hated. He slips under the covers as Harry takes off his clothes and hangs them over the edge of the chest of drawers. 

"You really do need me to charm you some more storage space."

"Maybe," Harry hums, climbing into bed with him. Harry indulges these little things about Draco that he can't imagine anyone else doing; slipping under the covers, a moment of modesty in amongst all the immodest things that Draco desperately wants. "We can talk about that later." He rolls Draco onto his side, facing away from Harry, so he can drop kisses along Draco's shoulder and up his neck. His dick bumps up against Draco's bottom. He wraps an arm around Draco from behind and teases gently at Draco's nipples with his fingertips. "My good boy," he says, "so fucking responsive, aren't you?"

Draco's skin pinks as he nods his _yes_. 

"Need to be touched, don't you? Need to be used."

He nods again. He can feel his skin flush as Harry keeps teasing at his nipples. 

"Is that little cock hard at the thought of what's coming next?" Harry asks. He drops his hand to cup Draco's little cocklet, then lets go so he can go back to playing with Draco's nipples. 

"Yes," Draco says. "My cocklet's so hard." The humiliation is soft and gentle, but it still hums through him, trembling across his skin as Harry presses himself to Draco's back. 

"Such a silly little thing," Harry agrees, licking his fingers so he can go back to plucking at Draco's nipples. It stings a little, and Draco's little cocklet reacts accordingly, slick dripping down its length. "Such a pointless, tiny little thing, isn't it? No use for fucking anyone. It's a good thing that all you want to be is fucked, my love, isn't it?"

_My love_. Draco's whole body hums with it. He nods, his skin hot. Harry drops another kiss to the back of his neck, then another. 

"And you've waited so long to be filled. You must be so desperate, my darling." He stops playing with Draco's nipples in favour of holding his hand out and _accio_ 'ing the little jar he'd left on the chest of drawers. Harry's careless wandless magic makes Draco tremble: to be owned by one so powerful, to submit to someone so magically strong. To be on his knees and loved by someone like Harry. "Aren't you desperate, Draco?"

"So, so desperate." 

"Let me get you ready, then," Harry says, scooping out some of the soft ointment from the jar. "Hold this for me."

The jar smells a little like citrus. He's breathing it in when Harry slips his slick fingers between Draco's legs and strokes over his hole. He can feel himself flutter in embarrassment at being touched there; at the private place he's inviting Harry to enter. Harry strokes him over and over, never venturing inside, getting him so slick and warm that the ointment slides down his thighs, and Harry presses his mouth to the back of Draco's neck and kisses him over and over as Draco makes tiny, desperate noises at Harry's touch. 

Then Harry slips the tip of his finger inside of Draco, and Draco's entire world has to realign after the sound that comes out of his mouth. 

"So good for me," Harry breathes, his mouth hot against Draco's skin. "So willing. You need this, don't you? You need me to fuck you."

Draco nods. He can't do other; Harry's fingertip is pressing inside of him, slick and intrusive and touching him, over and over so that all Draco can do is humiliate himself with the kinds of soft, almost-squeaky noises that he's never known himself make before. He squirms beneath Harry's touch, unable to keep still. He wants to open his legs wider, wants Harry to give him more, but Harry remains frustratingly, purposefully slow. 

"You can beg for it," Harry tells him, kissing the skin just behind Draco's ear, where he's ticklish and can't help but tremble. "My darling. You can beg for it."

Draco keens. "Please," he manages, because there's the blunt touch of a second finger against his hole, and it's teasing, promising, but not pressing inside of him. He wants to open his legs wide and show Harry just how desperate he is, just how needy he is, but Harry's knee is hooked over his, and he's anchored in place. He hadn't ever imagined the wet sound of slick fingers. "I want you inside of me. I want more of you. Please."

"Have you touched yourself here before?" Harry asks, ignoring Draco's pleas. He crooks his finger a little inside of him. "Do you do this when you masturbate?"

Draco shakes his head, trembling. "No."

"Saving yourself," Harry says, finger crooking again. Draco's so wet, he can feel the warm slick of the ointment against his skin. Maybe it's charmed; Harry hasn't exactly helped himself to more. He'll ask later. Harry kisses him again. "All the dirty, filthy things that you want, and you never gave yourself this. I'll make you finger yourself in the mirror next time. Make you get yourself ready for my cock."

"Next time?"

Harry's mouth trails across Draco's skin, and it feels like all the hairs on his body are standing on end. "You're mine," Harry says, pressing his tongue to Draco's skin. "Property of Harry Potter."

"Yes," Draco tells him, breathless. " _Yes_. Yours, all yours."

"Every filthy thing you want, I'll give it to you," Harry carries on, and there's his second finger, pressing inside of him alongside the first. "I'll fuck you covered in cake, I'll feed you chocolate until you're filthy with it, until you've got it everywhere and your cocklet's so stiff you're begging for me to let you come. I'll show you off in that club, show everyone how much you're desperate to be humiliated, put you in your collar and your lead and have you warm my cock all night so that everyone can see. I'll make you masturbate into a bowl and then lap it up, and I'll bring you home and I'll make you do it again, just for me. I'll make you do it all again, all of it just for me, Draco, make you rub yourself off until you come, no hands, like you're my piglet. Give you everything that's in that head of yours, everything you've ever come wanting, every dirty, depraved thing you've ever thought about. I'll give it all to you." He slips in a third finger alongside the second, and Draco is maddened with it, whimpering at the thought of what Harry's offering him, his skin flushed with sweat. "I'll give it all to you, every last thing you've ever wanted, my darling, because I love you so fucking much. I love you. Are you ready for my cock, love? Are you ready for me to fuck you?"

"Please," Draco manages, and _manages_ is a relative term, because he's not certain he's actually formed words other than in his head. He's on fire. His chest yearns for more. He yearns for more. He yearns for Harry, for his love, for his cock, for him to fuck him and have it mean forever. "Please."

"My gorgeous, filthy, boy," Harry says, and he crooks three fingers inside of Draco and Draco keens with it, desperately trying to press back against Harry's fingers, desperately wanting more. "My needy boy, Draco. Just holes to be filled, aren't you? And I'm going to fill you right up. Slide my cock right inside of you and fuck you."

"Just holes," Draco echoes, a trifle dazedly. "Please. _Please_."

"That's right, darling, You're nothing but a hole, are you? Are you ready to be filled?"

Draco opens his legs, slick dripping out of him and down over his thighs. That ointment has to be fucking charmed; Draco is going to figure out the spell and make so much of it that he'll be wet all the time. It makes him breathless just to think about it. 

"So soft, darling," Harry goes on, fingers slipping out of Draco's hole and stroking over his thighs, and round to his tiny little cock and the little jutting curve of his belly. "So beautiful, so soft."

Draco wants to weep. "Harry--"

"I know," Harry soothes him, kissing the back of his neck, the curve of his shoulder. "You're desperate to be filled, aren't you? We'll get you a plug. Keep you filled up for hours."

The noise Draco makes is humiliating. Harry hums a laugh into Draco's skin, and reaches down between them to circle his own cock and slick himself up. 

"I know you can't wait. My beautiful piglet. You like it when I call you that, don't you?"

Draco burns red but he nods anyway; the embarrassment makes his cocklet twitch. 

"My piglet," Harry says, and then he's sliding his cock inside of Draco, and it's tight and hot but so, so slick, and Draco's brain is crying out for more, and for the first time in his life he's being fucked but all he can think about is the humiliation and the love that Harry's offering him, both so intwined that he couldn't pick them apart if he tried. "My tiny, humiliated piglet." 

Harry is inside of him and instead of moving, he's cupping Draco's cheek instead, shifting their positions so he can almost press a kiss to Draco's mouth. 

"I love you," Draco says, and it's Harry's turn to make a queer, half-bitten off noise in his throat. His eyes are so bright. 

"Let me touch you," Harry says. "Let me touch your humiliatingly little cocklet and make you come."

It won't take much. Draco's a horny piglet at the best of times, and embarrassing himself by coming early is normal. And Harry's inside of him, _inside of him_ , filling him up, and Draco loves him. He loves him so much. "Make me come," he begs. "Fuck me and make me come."

Then Harry moves. He rolls his hips up and slides his dick further inside of him and covers Draco's little cocklet with his palm. "So little," he says, as he fucks into him, rocking up into him and Draco presses back to meet him, the ache stretching across his skin. "My soft little piglet."

Draco will come before Harry even properly touches him at this point, and he doesn't even care. He pants into the pillow, breathless and needy, filled up with Harry's cock. 

And Harry takes Draco's little cocklet in his finger and thumb, and touches him. 

Draco, humiliatingly tiny and unable to stop himself, comes after barely a touch, pulsing slick over Harry's thumb. The shame trembles over his skin, embarrassment entwining itself with want, with need; Harry is still pressed deep inside of him, his hips still rocking up against Draco's bum. 

"So useless," Harry says, but there's never anything malicious there, never anything hurtful or painful. It's just how Draco desperately wants to be loved, and Harry keeps on giving it to him like it's easy, like it's all right, like it's what he wants too. "Isn't your tiny cock useless, my love?" He smears come over Draco's tummy, up to his nipples, teasing at them until they tighten. His hips roll forwards, still fucking Draco, slick and hot and easy. "That's right, darling, I'm going to fuck you until you come again. But that won't be hard for you, will it? Because you're always so desperate. That little cocklet drips come. Such a useless, horny little piglet, aren't you? Tell me." 

Draco's little cock twitches. It's smaller when he's not hard. Just a tiny little cock, useless, and of no importance to anyone but Harry. "Useless," he manages, trying to focus. "Useless little cocklet. You're right. I'm just a desperate, horny piglet. Just holes to be filled."

"And I'm filling you," Harry agrees, breath hot against Draco's skin. He nips at Draco's shoulder with his teeth, arm wrapped around his chest, anchoring him close. Draco craves closeness, he craves intimacy, and Harry is holding him so tight that Draco can barely breathe, and it's perfect. "Making use of you."

Draco keens. He presses back as Harry pushes forward, and it aches, and it's the kind of ache that he can feel right down to his toes, and up through his fingertips, the knowledge that Harry is there, he's _inside of him_ , he's slowly fucking Draco and Draco's body is reacting as if it's everything he's ever dreamed of. 

Harry strokes his palm up Draco's throat, tilting up his chin and holding him there. He kisses him, kisses him again, kisses dragged along his jaw, breath slack. "I love you," he says. "Love you so much. Going to look after you so well."

"You do," Draco manages, because he's getting hard again. He touches himself this time, knows just how to lose his little cock in his fist and feel the most embarrassed. 

"Masturbate," Harry tells him. "I want you to come again before I come in you."

"I will," Draco says. "I will." He's always imagined it would be faster than this, that fucking was rushed, but Harry's slow. He's fucking him so slowly that it's going to be easy for Draco to masturbate and come again; it'd be hard for him not to. Harry's telling him everything he knows Draco will want to hear. 

"One day I'll treat you like a real piglet," Harry says, still playing with his nipples with one hand, the other on Draco's hip as he slowly fucks up into him. "Make you sleep in the pet bed. Eat from the pet bowls." He pauses. "Go in the litter tray like animals do."

Draco trembles. The sheer, unadulterated shame of being treated like nothing better than an animal. The humiliation. 

The want. 

"That's right, darling, I know you want that. Maybe we'll have to lock that little cocklet up at the same time. Can't have piglets rutting over all the furniture, can we? No, I think we need to think about a little cock cage, if they make them small enough for cocklets like yours. It's not good for piglets to come whenever they want to, anyway. It lets them get into bad habits. And we both know that you'll come on a sofa or a rug if you get the opportunity. Horny little thing, aren't you?"

"Yes," Draco says, masturbating. "I'll come everywhere if you let me. Such a horny little piglet. That's what I am."

"Are you going to come, love? I want you to come."

Draco knows he can come a lot. He used to masturbate at least three times a day, even before his mother moved to the continent. Even at school he'd slowly come to realise that he wanted to more than the other boys in his dormitory. He's depraved. His nanny growing up had told him he'd go blind if he touched himself, or he'd grow hairs on his palm and everyone would know he'd been bad, and at Hogwarts those first few years he'd checked religiously for hairs on his palm and that his eyesight remained perfect. Masturbating had brought him pleasure when he'd been all alone. A depraved, solitary joy and the only opportunity he'd ever had to indulge his fantasies, and now he was in bed with Harry and all of them were being indulged. All of them, even the part where coming prematurely was something he did and was embarrassed over. He never wanted to hold out. The shame was in coming. 

"Come on, darling," Harry says, and Draco, obedient to the last, comes again, pulsing over his fingertips and his thighs as Harry kept on fucking him. "That's right, you come first and then it's up to me to follow, isn't it? You're going to make me come, Malfoy, you're going to make me come so hard." His hips rock up, his pace increasing, and Draco wipes come across his own face and lets himself be fucked. 

He lets go, and lets Harry take him, body and soul, and if he sees forever in the stars then maybe, just this once he's not alone. 

Harry, with a breathless, cut-off cry, comes inside of him, and doesn't let go. 

***

It's later, when Harry's cleaned them up with a gentle _scourgify_ , and Draco's arranged the sheets over the top of them both, that Harry rests his cheek on Draco's shoulder and hugs him. 

"Thank you," Harry says finally, because they haven't really filled the quiet with inane chatter, "for letting me look after you."

Draco's tired, but he stifles a yawn. "You've got it wrong," he says. "I should be the one thanking you."

"No," Harry says. His eyes are closed. "No one ever lets me look after them. I don't know if anyone ever has. Ginny hated it. She's too independent. Everyone else either wants to look after me or wants nothing from me. They don't understand that I want to give it. You're the only one who ever let me. Ginny said I was stifling her. You don't feel stifled, do you?"

Draco tries very hard not to let on how sad he feels whenever Harry reveals something so desperately mundane that he's never been allowed to have. "Not in the least," he says after a moment. "Not at all."

"We weren't right together and it's not like I wish we were, you know? We made a mess of things and managed - by great persistence - to come out the other side as friends. But I wish I hadn't made her feel like she was stifled. I don't ever want you to feel like that. You'd tell me, wouldn't you? If I was doing something wrong? If I made you feel… I don't know. Something you didn't want to feel."

"You make me feel like I'm loved. Like you know me, and you love me anyway. That's not stifling." He struggles to find the words. "It's like you're giving me the world. It's the opposite of stifling. You're the opposite of stifling. I used to be so alone, Harry, you have no idea. But I'm not anymore. I'm not anymore because of you."

"Like the world's opening up again."

Draco shakes his head. "Not _again_ ," he says, "it can't be _again_ if it never opened up for you the first time."

Harry doesn't say anything for the longest time. Draco's half convinced he's fallen asleep, although neither of them is very good at falling asleep like this. They like their own sides of the bed. 

"I wish I'd said yes to being your friend that time," Harry says, in the end. "When you offered it to me. Friendship. I wish I'd said yes."

"I was a revolting little snot-brain," Draco says, without rancour. "You don't."

"Later, then. Afterwards."

"No," Draco says. "We work now. We might not have worked then. I'm happy with now."

Harry drops a kiss to Draco's arm. He rolls away then, settling himself down on the right side of the bed, leaving Draco to his own side, like always. He rests his cheek on his hand. "I bloody love you," he says finally. "I really, really bloody love you."

Draco's heart pounds. "It hasn't been very long."

"It has been from where I'm standing," Harry says. He closes his eyes. "It's been years."

"Harry."

"Draco," Harry says. "It's all right. Go to sleep. We'll talk about it another time."

Draco waits until Harry really is mostly asleep this time. "Thank you," he says softly. "For tonight."

"Go to sleep," Harry says, without opening his eyes. He reaches a little blindly for Draco's hand under the covers. "It's all right. You can go to sleep."

Draco, obedient until the end, lets out a breath, and closes his eyes.


End file.
